


Don't Forget your Happy Days

by gardakuka



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Background Relationships, Crack, Everyone Likes Surprises Right?, F/M, Post-Quiet Isle Sandor, Sandor's POV, Sort Of, Time Travel, but at what cost, he's dead jim, oh wait he isn't
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-03
Updated: 2020-02-13
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:55:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 24,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22099051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gardakuka/pseuds/gardakuka
Summary: New Game Plusis the option of starting a new game by accessing a previous finished game, allowing you to start with improved stats, new costumes or items won beforehand(c)TV Tropes
Relationships: Sandor Clegane/Sansa Stark
Comments: 20
Kudos: 43





	1. Sandor 99

**Author's Note:**

> So I lost the access to the files with my ongoing fanfics for some hours yesterday, became bored, and ah shit here we go again~
> 
> I won't write too many words here this time, just some things:
> 
> 1) Sandor is a changed man after spending some time at Quiet Isle; he's calmer, more reasonable, and is deeply in love with Sansa.  
> 2) This is my shortest summary ever lol (btw, the summary is a gaming term)  
> 3) I swear, I've got a notebook where I have a track when and how I should update all my ongoing fanfics lol  
> 4) There will be short epigraphs before each chapter, most of them will be taken from the worldwide non-English songs, so I am apologising in advance for my wobbly translation :') ~~I can even post links to the songs if someone will be interested~~
> 
> Maybe I will change the title later on.
> 
> This fanfic won't be updated as often as the others because of reasons, just fyi c':

_Fly away, forsake what you've got,_  
_But you'll be back one day._

Sandor was sitting under the huge oak and polishing the blade of his sword. The sound of metal clashing was honey to his ears, soothing his worries and bringing some peace to his soul. Sandor made some final movements, touching the edge with his fingers. He lightly pressed his thumb to it, until the tiny blood drop appeared. Sandor hummed in approval, wiping it on his tunic. His sword was ready for the action, which meant they could move further when the morning comes.

Sandor grinned. According to his calculations, they had to reach Winterfell in about a day. Or maybe a little bit more, if they will make a stop the next afternoon. Their final destination was now so close it still felt unbelievable. They were on a run for about a month, even though it could take them much faster to arrive there if they decided to go straight from the Vale. But Sandor knew they will be followed, so he offered to make some extra circles, as it had to trip up their pursuers. Sansa, the sweet soul, was so eager to run away with him that she agreed to his plan straight away, even if it meant she will see her family later than it was expected initially.

There were Starks in Winterfell again. Sansa’s younger brothers were brought there one by one, and now a new Lord Stark was trying to rule the whole North on his own. As Sandor heard while living in the Vale disguised as the holy brother, first they brought back the youngest one, Rickon, by the personal request of King Stannis. Then the crippled brother appeared on the threshold of his home, and after some talks, he was named the new Lord. He had to swear his allegiance to Stannis, but at least the North was taken care of and Stark brothers were in charge of their family keep. In fact, Bran Stark wasn’t ruling on his own, the merchants from whom Sandor heard the story had mentioned something about the loyal knight of the King, who was assigned to help the new Lord. And there was lord-commander of the Night Watch by his side too, at least the word about him helping his half-brothers was spread as well. Sandor didn’t believe those rumours, he knew that Jon Snow was dead. And if he was dead, there was no chance he could come back to life and help Bran Stark to rule the North.

Sandor put his sword in a scabbard, gently running his fingers over it. He put so much effort in making his weapon to look nice and ready for action, it was fair to caress it so lightly and with an unhidden care. Sandor was a rough man, and only in some very rare occasions, he was capable to express this gentleness, which could make the others to question the sanity of a huge monster he appeared to be in the eyes of the others.

He was gentle when he was touching his sword.

He was gently when he was tending to Stranger, even if the black beast sometimes deserved a good smack for being stubborn and disrespectful horse.

And of course, he was gentle as the Mother and the Maiden combined when he was touching Sansa Stark.

Oh no, not Stark. Sandor thought about it, his lips stretched into a wide grin. She was Sansa Stark once when she was a naive little girl, her head full of songs and her eyes unable to look at his ugly mug. Then she became a Lannister, and Sandor never wanted to learn what was happening in her pretty head and deep blue eyes during the cursed time she was a wife of Tyrion Lannister. Not a dutiful wife, thanks to all gods if they existed, but she was living as a Lannister for years, even while that Baelish prick made her to call herself his bastard daughter. She was living in disguise, hiding from _her husband’s family_ and bearing too frivolous touches of Baelish. Oh, how Sandor wanted to cut his feeble hands off, but they had to run away from the Vale too quickly for his liking. It was true that Sandor was a changed man now, his soul calmed down by the long conversations with the Elder Brother and hours of digging, but he still wanted to tear Baelish apart with his bare hands for all the sufferings Sansa had to endure during the time she was living as Alayne Stone.

But then she run away with him and was Alayne Stone no more. She was Sansa again, carrying the name of the buggering Lannisters until they finally reached the Quiet Isle. Sansa bid a proper farewell to her _temporary_ father, pouring some sweet lies into his ears and stealing a sealed parchment from his solar when he was asleep. And then she ran away with a _temporary_ brother of faith, who was Sandor Clegane again. Not the Hound, not the holy brother, he was free from all those names because of her choice to go with him. She kissed him and said that her life is now in his hands, and he accepted her words straight away. She tried to kiss him before too, when he came to her in his brother’s robes to share the rumours of her brothers, but Sandor pushed her away. She was Sansa Stark, even if she was calling herself differently, and there was no way Sansa Stark would kiss him willingly. But she tried, and then said she was only returning his kiss. And that she was so glad he was alive. And that she was praying for him, wishing he was by her side. Sandor was a changed man, but he still could recognise any type of lie, and he saw that Sansa Stark wasn’t lying to him.

It took him some time to accept she was looking at him differently now. It took her some time to learn more about a man Sandor had become while they were parted. It took some time for both of them to understand their feelings, but by the time Baelish told his bastard daughter she was about to finally marry Harry Hardyng, both Sandor and Sansa made up their minds. They run away, Sandor’s robes forgotten in a tiny sept, Alayne’s belongings left in her locked chamber. She took just a tiny bundle of the most necessary things with her, but the most important one was the parchment she stole from Baelish. A letter from the protector of the Vale to the High Septon, stating that lady Sansa Stark was still a maid, which meant her marriage to Tyrion Lannister had to be annulled without the consent of the said Tyrion Lannister. It took Sansa some efforts and sweet lies to take off her _father’s_ guard, but she said it was worth it.

She was almost free, and that was all what Sansa Stark needed.

They run away and ended up on the Quiet Isle. The Elder Brother complained about the disobedient brother who ran away from his duties, but Sandor knew he was just showing off. Sansa, on the other hand, was quite happy to make her acquaintances with the man she heard a lot from Sandor during their brief encounters in the Vale. She even gave him the parchment, so the Elder Brother would be able to send the letter to the High Septon himself. Then she asked if there was a chance for her to stay on the Isle for a little bit, and Sandor was sent away to prepare a cabin for her. And Sansa Stark kissed him again, apparently, she found a big joy in doing that, trying to feel his lips under hers one at every possible occasion. Not that Sandor was complaining about it, absolutely not. Sansa’s lips were the sweetest thing he ever tasted in his life, and at the same time, they were making his head swimming faster than any wine in the whole world. But of course, the buggering Elder Brother had to find them kissing on the threshold of Sansa’s cabin, and the rest of the nights Sandor spent with the brothers of faith, grumpy as the Stranger himself. But at least he wasn’t prohibited of talking to Sansa, or holding her tiny palm in his ones. At least it was something the gods were approving of.

They didn’t stay on the Isle for a long time. Sansa was too eager to finally be reunited with her brothers, and Sandor knew that Baelish will look for his _bastard daughter_ everywhere, and the holy place they were hiding in was too close to the bloody prick who had never stopped in front of anything to reach his goal. So they waited until Stranger was well-rested and was ready for a long journey, and after Sandor had three arguments with the Elder Brother, a long and proper conversation with Sansa, and a quick ceremony in the small sept which Sandor already knew as his fingers, they finally left the Quiet Isle and headed to Winterfell. The bugger of a septon blessed them and gave his word to turn away any possible pursuers sent by Baelish. There was nothing for them to look for at the tiny plot of land, after all, Alayne Stone had never visited the holy place, and there was no such woman as Sansa Stark anymore. She didn’t even exist in this world.

A loud rustling in the nearby bushes dragged Sandor from his thoughts. He didn’t even touch his sword, he had already learned _every_ sound sweet Sansa was making while being around him. The rustling became even louder and then Sansa finally appeared on a small clearing they decided to use as their stop for this night.

"Sandor!" she beamed happily, wiping her wet hands on her dress. There was an unimpressed snort from the bushes, his bloody stallion started to become jealous of Sansa's attention recently. She was a fair young lady, of course, even the most stubborn horse had fallen to her charming nature.

Sandor put his sword aside and quickly brushed off the dust and some fallen leaves from his tunic and breeches, his armour lying on the ground within arm's reach. Sansa was next to him in a blink of an eye, and it took her the same amount of time to sit herself down on his lap, her hands around his neck, her pretty lips touching the burnt side of his jaw.

"The water is so cold there," she complained between her tiny kisses.

"The winter is here," Sandor shrugged, burying his right hand in Sansa's hair. They still weren't fully auburn, the brown traces appearing here and there, but Sandor liked them the same. Sandor leaned closer until his nose was touching the crown of her head, inhaling Sansa's scent. She smelled of cold water, of some flowers which name Sandor didn't know, and of home. They still had to reach Winterfell, but holding her in his huge ugly arms Sandor was feeling himself at home.

"Stranger tried to kick me into the river," Sansa giggled, making herself comfortable and putting her head on Sandor's chest. "I know that I need a proper bath, but your horse is very blunt about this subject."

"You smell quite nice," Sandor mumbled, drawing Sansa closer with his left hand and nuzzling his nose near her ear. "Like a winter."

"I am a northerner, after all," Sansa laughed, moving her hands down and starting to caress his chest in slow motions. "Sandor, when are we going to be in Winterfell?"

"Soon, pretty bird," Sandor placed a gentle kiss on the crown of her head. "Tomorrow afternoon, I hope."

"Good," Sansa smiled, playing with the fabric of his tunic. "Can't wait to finally see my brothers."

"I'm sure they will be happy to meet you," Sandor caressed her long hair in a soothing motion.

"If only they remember me," Sansa sighed. "Well, Bran has enough memories of me so he won't be surprised to see me on the threshold of our home, but Rickon…" she sighed again, this time louder. "I don't know if he even remembers who I am."

"He will remember you," Sandor promised. "They both will, and then you finally will be home."

"I will finally be in Winterfell," Sansa tilted her head up and looked at Sandor with a sincere smile. "But my home is where you are, my dear husband."

She leaned to him, and Sandor bent down to catch her lips with his, at the same time helping her to get on her knees. He also learned how to find a joy in kissing Sansa, so when she was finally standing on her knees, sucking his lower lip, Sandor allowed himself to relax and make a satisfying sound at the back of his throat. Sansa was a quick learner, she knew how to make _him_ sing with simple kisses and caresses. Maybe his song wasn’t as pretty and wicked as hers one, but it was able to make Sansa shiver and start to breathe much faster than before.

“I want you so much,” Sansa panted, finally breaking their kiss. Her lips were caressing the numb side of his face and she was looking at him through the trembling eyelashes, her eyes dark from the hunger. “Now.”

“You are a greedy little bird, aren’t you?” Sandor smirked, moving his hands to her teats and starting to caress them gently through her woollen dress. Sansa leaned into his touch, sucking air through her clenched teeth.

“ _You_ made me this greedy bird,” she replied with a shudder, squeezing her eyes tightly when Sandor’s thumb found the nipples on both her perfect little teats. “I was touching myself in the Vale, thinking of you, you know?”

“Aye,” Sandor groaned, feeling his cock hardening in his breeches as an image of Sansa _touching herself_ in her bed flashed in his mind. He leaned forward, kissing and biting on her sweet lips. He felt her hands moving down and starting to unlace his breeches, so he made a growl of approval and loosed the ribbons and lashes on her dress. Sansa moved a little bit, helping him to pull her dress down. Sandor freed one of her teats and pushed Sansa closer, so he was finally able to bend a little bit down and take her perfect pink nipple in his mouth.

“Gods!” Sansa gasped, clinging to his shoulders, his breeches were forgotten a while ago. Sandor kept on sucking and licking, taking care of her other nipple with his fingers. Her other teat was still covered with her dress, but Sandor knew she was enjoying the sensation of a rough woollen fabric rubbing against her hardened nipple. She was panting and wiggling on his lap, her song of pleasure so sweet his cock was almost ready to explode just like that.

“I need you, Sandor,” Sansa squeaked, pulling him away by his hair. “ _Please_.”

“As my lady wife wishes,” Sandor groaned, giving a final lick to her nipple and running his hands down her waist and hips. Sansa got a hold of her breath and returned to his breeches, finally unlacing them and dragging them lower, his cock finally released. Sandor sucked in a breath when he felt her tiny fingers wrapping around the soaking wet head, caressing it lightly.

“Do you like it?” Sansa asked almost innocently, tilting her head to the side and looking directly at his eyes. She tried her best to look as innocent as she could, but the dark lust in her eyes and her delicate fingertips running over his cock completely ruined the image of a fair maiden.

“Very much,” Sandor chuckled, finally getting his hands under the heavy skirts of her dress. “ _Oh_.”

“What is it?” Sansa chirped sweetly, licking her lips.

“I’ve just realised that someone’s wife decided not to wear any smallclothes before coming to her husband,” Sandor snorted, his thumb gently touching her folds. “And is _so wet_ already.”

“I wonder who is that lucky husband,” Sansa giggled. Her giggles turned into a deep moan as Sandor run his thumb over her swollen nub.

“Aye, who is that lucky bastard,” Sandor mumbled, licking her ear. “I kind of envy him, you know, his wife is soaking from her pleasure here, and what is he doing?”

“He is making his wife happy,” Sansa moaned, drawing forward and trying to catch his lips with hers.

“And satisfied?” Sandor asked, his index finger disappearing between Sansa’s folds.

“No-o,” she moaned at the sensation and tightened the grip of her fingers on Sandor’s cock. “She needs something _bigger_.”

“Like this?” Sandor added the second finger. He felt Sansa’s cunt starting to tighten around him, as if she was already reaching her edge. _Too early_.

“Bigger!” she sobbed, her hands flew up and grabbed Sandor’s shoulders. He hissed when she released his cock, but there was no point to ask her to put her hands on him again. She was too eager to feel him _inside_ her sweet perfect cunt, and that was what Sandor was looking for right now.

Sandor lifted slightly, lowering his breeches a little bit. His cock twitched in a hungry anticipation, and as soon as he was sitting still again, Sansa sobbed and moved forward, lowering herself right on him.

“Don’t be in a rush, you hungry little bird,” Sandor laughed, helping her to adjust to his size. They had a proper good fuck almost every day now, but Sansa’s cunt was the tightest thing in the whole world, driving him crazy and making her sob in pleasure. She shook her head, slowly going down even deeper, her nails sank into his neck, leaving tiny little marks there. She was whimpering and sobbing, and became still only when Sandor’s cock was fully inside.

Sandor closed his eyes, trying not to focus on the wet heat which now everywhere. Sansa buried her face in his neck, trembling and panting almost soundlessly. He gently embraced her, caressing her shoulder and pressing her tightly to his chest. Gods, but Sansa was a goddess, that what Sandor was sure of. And he was the luckiest bastard in the whole world, having such a perfect beauty with the sweetest cunt and gentlest mind as his wife.

Sansa mumbled something into his shoulder, sinking her nails even deeper in his rough skin.

“What is it, Sansa?” he rasped, feeling how she squeezed around his cock only because he called her by her name.

“I need _more_ ,” Sansa sobbed, lifting her head and looking at him, her eyes full of lust and tears. “Please, _move_.”

“Maybe _you_ should be the one to move?” Sandor teased her, licking his lips. He didn’t mean anything by it, ready to move and get both of them to their complexion, but Sansa sobbed again and then slowly lifted herself, her body started to tremble when there was only the tip of his head inside her soaking folds. She shivered, gasped, and froze, mesmerised by the new feeling. Sandor grunted his teeth and rocked his hips a little bit, his cockhead moving lightly between her swollen lower lips.

“ _Go-ods_ ,” Sansa moaned in a hoarse voice and lowered herself down in a swift motion.

It was too much. Sandor dug his fingers into the delicate skin on her thighs, moving frantically and helping her to move at the same time. Sansa was moaning loudly, driving him crazy, and at some point, Sandor started to question his sanity. He felt Sansa hiding her face in his neck again, but this time she bit him there, and at the same time she was done. Her sweet cunt was pulsating, squeezing his throbbing cock and milking his release. He heard Sansa cry his name, her voice deep and full of lust, and it was too much for him. He spilt his seed inside of her, hearing Sansa’s satisfied groan.

“Is my little bird finally replete?” he chuckled into her ear, embracing her and holding close to his chest.

“Maybe,” she chirped with a giggle, nuzzling her nose into his neck and sighing happily. Sandor caressed her back in lazy gentle movements, his cock becoming soft inside of her. It was the most wicked thing in the whole world, he decided. To be sitting somewhere in the forest with sweet Sansa on his lap, her cunt enveloping his cock, and listening to her soft humming. She always started to hum something whenever she was happy or satisfied. And during their travels, she was humming more and more often.

Sandor pressed his lips to her temple, shifting a little bit.

“We need to get up, little bird,” he grumbled. To be honest, it was the least thing Sandor wanted at this moment, but they had to prepare their bedrolls and have some sleep before they could resume their travels.

“Don’t want,” Sansa pouted, her face still hidden in his neck.

“But we _need_ to,” Sandor gently pushed her away, not forgetting to caress her hair when they touched his arm. “We will be in Winterfell tomorrow, so we need to hurry up.”

“You said we need to have some sleep,” Sansa sighed, standing up and putting her skirts down. Before the woollen fabric fell on its place, Sandor was able to catch a quick sight of her wet cunt, his seed dripping down from her folds. His cock twitched, happy to go for another round, and Sandor quietly cursed under his breath.

“We will prepare our bedrolls and have a proper sleep,” he said, getting on his feet and lacing up his breeches. “Then we will be ready to move forward, so by tomorrow’s night, we will finally arrive at your place. Imagine, little bird, you will be ready to finally embrace your brothers, to have a proper warm food from your kitchens, and sleep on the huge featherbed.”

“I hope there is a featherbed huge enough for both of us,” Sansa giggled, making her way to the rolls with clothes and other things they got with them and fetching a pair of smallclothes. “Because I am not looking forward to spend any night on my own.”

“Your dutiful bedwarmer will be ready to help you at any time,” Sandor bowed.

“I prefer to have just my husband lying next to me,” Sansa laughed, moving back to the bushes. “Not some weird _bedwarmer_. Now excuse me, I need to smooth my ruffled feathers.”

Sandor barked out a laugh. Just some moments ago his cock was deeply buried in her hot wet cunt, but still she was trying to act like a lady. What a silly bird she was.

Sandor stretched his hands and went to fetch some wood so they could make a small fire. It was getting colder and colder at nights, and the said fire became their constant companion. From the other side, it could attract some wild animals or even humans to their little camp, but Sandor didn’t have another choice but to set it up. Usually, he was choking it before falling asleep, but at least he and Sansa were able to spend their night without a fear to freeze to death.

By the time Sansa was back, the fire was already ready and Sandor finished setting up their bedrolls, putting them close to each other as usually. Sansa smiled at him with gratitude and lowered herself on the one which was closer to the fire. She fetched her wooden comb and started to prepare her hair before the night. Sandor checked on Stranger, who neighed quietly when Sandor brushed his mane. His stallion looked like he was eager to continue their travel straight away, but Sandor just laughed and scratched his muzzle.

“We will be in Winterfell tomorrow, right, boy?” he whispered, giving his horse the final stroke before he finally left to the clearing.

He sat down on his bedroll, dragging his armour and sword closer. The area they were in now wasn’t full of outlaws or any type of other danger, but Sandor preferred to be cautious even at the quiet times. Sansa was still combing her hair, humming another joyful tune. Sandor placed a quick peck on her shoulder and laid down, tugging some pieces of clothing under his head. Many years ago he was a soldier and sleeping on the bare ground was something he could do whenever it was needed. But now he was just Sandor Clegane, not a soldier and not the fearsome Hound, and he had precious little wife by his side, whose place wasn’t on the cold ground, so Sandor wished for their travels to finish as soon as it was even possible. Tomorrow will be the day. Tomorrow he and Sansa will lie down on the huge featherbed, he will hold her in his hands and they will give each other lazy kisses.

Finally, Sansa put her comb aside, quickly braiding her hair. She leaned forward and choked the fire, then laid down and moved to Sandor’s side straight away, nestling against his chest and sighing dreamily. Sandor put his arm around her, placing another little peck on the crown of her hair. Sansa mumbled something, and then she was asleep instantly. Sandor knew she was tired from their travels, though she didn’t want to show it to Sandor. She was trying to act like her little sister from time to time, but she was Sansa, not the wolf bitch. She wasn’t used to the long rides on a huge stallion, and sleeping on the cold ground wasn’t right for her. But she never complained, smiling at Sandor and reassuring him she was fine with everything he was able to provide for both of them. And Sandor knew she meant it, and with each day passing, he was trying his best to ease her time on the run. But they will arrive at Winterfell tomorrow, he reminded himself. And then he will be able to see his sweet Sansa smiling and feeling herself at ease.

Sansa tossed a little bit, making herself comfortable in her sleep. Her breath was calm and steady, and Sandor found himself mesmerized by the peaceful expression on her face. It still felt too unbelievable she agreed to become his wife. She was attracted to him since their first meeting in the Vale, trying to kiss him and telling stories about their kiss on the night the Blackwater bay was burning. She wasn’t lying, Sandor saw it in her eyes, so somehow the girl he knew as a little chirping bird ended up deeply attracted to an ugly bastard like him. When they were in King’s Landing, Sandor saw himself as a cruel heartless monster, but somehow his image in Sansa’s pretty head was an opposite one. She was talking of him as if he was a buggering Ser Prettyface Goldilocks, who was taking a great care of a certain fair maiden. She was wrong. he was an ugly dog, but she ended up attracted to him nonetheless. She was sneaking to his sept in the middle of the night, not even scared of her pretender of a father to learn about her mischievous behaviour, and she talked to him, and talked, and talked, melting Sandor’s heart with each her appearance on the threshold of the holy place where he was pretending to be a brother of faith, sent there by the request of the Elder Brother. And when she tried to kiss him the next time, Sandor didn’t push her away. Maybe he was an ugly prick, but he wasn’t a fool, right?

When they escaped the Vale, she was finally free and could do anything she wanted. At some point Sandor was feeling a nasty fear inside his chest, its claws sinking deeply into his heart and its ugly voice whispering that Sansa needed him only for her escape. Her kisses still meant nothing, the fear was murmuring when Sansa was smiling at him with the most wide and sincere smile, she just became a proper mummer while you were away. She had Cersei and Baelish as her mentors, the fear reminded him, she knew how to use his weakness and make him battle even the Stranger himself if she needed. But then the days went by, they arrived at the Quiet Isle, and Sansa was still by his side, her eyes shining brightly every time he was taking her little hand in his huge paw. When they were ready to move to the North, Sandor’s mind played a cruel trick on him and he found himself asking pretty lady Sansa Stark to marry him. She didn’t laugh at his face, didn’t flinch, didn’t frown, she just simply nodded and fell into his open arms, giggling and sobbing. It was so unbelievable, but his words made her happy, and making her happy was what Sandor wanted the most, so when they were leaving the island, a raven flew to the High Septon, carrying two notes, one of them signed by the Elder Brother, stating that lady Sansa Stark wasn’t bearing her family name anymore.

She told him he will be the most welcomed at her family keep. Her brothers will like him, and he will be able to train the men of Winterfell. Sansa didn’t want to become a lady of Winterfell, even though she had a right for it, her brothers being too young and Bran attached to the chair, she said her place was by his side. She even offered they could move to the Clegane Keep when the war will be over, to restore it and bring the good name to the House his grandfather was trying to establish with all his heart. It was a childish offer, but Sandor just shrugged. He didn’t care about it at the moment, the only thing he wanted was just to be by her side. Even if it will take him some time to earn some respect from the northerners, unlike Sansa, Sandor was positive enough her people won’t accept him so easily. But he will try, he decided, just to make her happy. Sandor ran his fingers through the hair which got out of her braid, inhaling her sweet scent and closing his eyes. She was lying by his side like that for about a month now, and he still wasn’t able to believe his luck in truth.

He fell asleep too, his dreams full of light caresses of Sansa’s soft lips and fingers. She was so beautiful in his dream, but even in his sleep, Sandor knew that she was a thousand times more beautiful. And even in his sleep, his heart was ready to explode from all that tenderness he was feeling for her. He wanted to protect her, to cherish her, to worship her as his goddess, he wanted it for so long, since he was a no-good drunkard of a soldier in the Red Keep. He was a stupid fool back then, but now his wish came true. It was so difficult to believe in it, but Sansa was kissing him even in his sleep, so he knew it was real.

When he was dragged out of his sweet dream, it wasn’t because of the sunlight. It was Stranger, pouting and neighing in the bushes, as if he was able to feel the danger. Sandor knew this behaviour too well for taking it as some weird horse dream, so he was on his feet faster than an eye blink.

“Sandor?” he heard Sansa mumbling on the ground. She propped herself up on her elbow, rubbing her sleepy eyes with the other hand. “Is everything alright?”

“Stranger heard something,” Sandor spat, grabbing his sword and preparing to battle any bugger who would try to attack them. Sansa blinked, her sleep fading off straight away. Now her pretty face was full of fear, but it was really difficult for Sandor to say what _exactly_ she was fearing of. Was it her life, or was it _his life_.

Sansa opened her mouth to say something, but Sandor put his finger to his lips. She froze on her place, her hands flying up to cover her mouth. Sandor walked to his stallion’s side very slowly, his sword in his hand. Stranger relaxed a little bit after he caught the sight of his master, but was still snorting and moving from side to side. He calmed down only after Sandor put his hand on his muzzle, and then he heard it.

Some people were coming to the clearing from the woods. And judging from the sounds around them, they were fully armoured and ready for a fight if it was needed. Sandor had no idea, were they allies or enemies, but the only thing he knew for sure there were at least five of them. And if they were the enemies, it was really dangerous to meet them just by himself, with unarmed Sansa by his side. He knew what he had to do straight away.

Sandor quickly untethered Stranger and brought him to the clearing with him. Sansa was already on her feet, gathering their belongings into small bundles they had.

“Are we leaving?” she asked breathlessly, the fear still in her eyes.

“ _You_ are leaving,” Sandor grunted, taking the bundles and attaching them to the saddle. “Stranger is a smart horse, he will bring you straight to your brothers.”

“I am not going without you,” Sansa tried to protest, but Sandor quickly covered her mouth with his huge hand.

“You _are_ going, Sansa,” he whispered, leaning down so close he was able to feel her breath on his lips. “You are going to Winterfell, I will stay here. If the soldiers are our allies, there’s nothing for me to fear, right?”

“But if they aren’t?” there were tears on the edges of her eyes now.

“Then I’ll cut their ugly heads off,” Sandor shrugged. “Look, I will be here, just tell the soldiers at your keep to come and get me back there, alright?”

“I don’t want to go,” Sansa sobbed. She latched on to his tunic, a fierce determination appearing in her eyes. “I am not leaving you here, Sandor.”

“You won’t leave me,” he promised, placing a quick kiss on her lips. “And I won’t leave you, alright? We’ll just simply part our ways for a time being, and then we will meet in Winterfell again. I promise you, Sansa.”

She swallowed her sob, raising herself on tiptoes and kissing him deeply. They didn’t have time for it, but Sandor allowed himself to answer to her eagerness. The kiss was wet and salty, but it was full of tenderness and _love_ , so deep and so overwhelming Sandor almost forgot about everything.

“Remember,” Sansa whispered after he broke their kiss. “You made a promise.”

“Aye,” he pressed his temple to hers. “But now you need to go. Just trust Stranger, he knows what he is doing.”

Sansa nodded, wiping her tears with the sleeve of her dress. Sandor helped her to get on Stranger’s back, making sure she was comfortable and had everything she might need for her travels.

“Bring her home, boy, and don’t stop until you are there,” he whispered to the stallion. “I know I can trust you, right?”

Stranger neighed, and then he was gone. The last thing Sandor saw before his huge warhorse disappeared into the woods were Sansa’s eyes. She wasn’t crying anymore, but there was an unhidden fear in her sight. Her heart was aching, Sandor knew that very well. Maybe he had to go with her as well and bugger those men who were approaching the clearing they made their camp in. But if these were their enemies, there was a chance that one day they will end up at the gates of Winterfell, trying to get Sansa to the bloody Baelish even from her brothers.

Sandor had to deal with them now. He squeezed the grip of his sword, thinking of wearing his armour, but he simply didn’t have time to come up with the solution. There was a rumbling sound in the bushes around the clearing, and four men appeared in front of him. They weren’t wearing any sigils on their clothes, nor they had any other signs of their affiliation to any House. They were a bunch of sellswords for sure, and there was only one man who could send some sellswords to the woods of the North.

“Oi,” one of them raised his eyebrow at the sight of Sandor. “Look who’s here!”

“I heard the Hound was dead,” the other one commented, eyeing Sandor’s scars with some sort of fascination. The third man, the biggest of all of them, was toying with his sword. The last bugger, the smallest of all of them, quickly looked around, elbowing the first man and getting his attention to the clearing.

“He’s alone here,” he groaned. “No girl.”

“Tell us, mighty Hound,” the first man, clearly the leader, laughed. “Where’s a fair maid called Alayne Stone?”

“Never heard of anyone called Alayne,” Sandor shrugged, squeezing his sword even harder.

“Really?” the leader laughed. “What a pity. Looks like nobody knows who the fuck Alayne Stone is. Not you, not the peasants we met on our way here, not even the bloody septon.”

Sandor’s mouth twitched.

“There’s no Alayne Stone for you here,” he warned, raising his sword in front of him. 

“The old bugger on the Isle said the same, but we know he lied,” the smallest bugger smirked. “And the Seven are teaching us that lying is a sin, so we had to punish him, you know?”

“Don’t think about that bugger at all, Wayne,” the leader shrugged. “He’s already dead, and now we need to deal with the Hound before continuing our way to the North.”

“Aye, the Lord said we should look for his daughter somewhere in the North,” the second one nodded. “But first, the Hound. He is a cripple, as I heard, so we will take him down easily.”

“The fuck you will”, Sandor grunted through the clenched teeth, waiting for any of them to make the first move. He wanted to forget everything he learned from the Elder Brother and just start the fight, kill the buggers, protect Sansa and avenge the man who saved him. But he simply was unable to move his hand. His head was full of unwanted thoughts, which were making him to slow down.

Then the smallest bugger chuckled and jumped forward, hoping to catch Sandor off-guard. His brain was the smallest one as well, Sandor was ready for the attack and easily struck his blow aside, hitting the bugger with his elbow and sending him to the ground. He coughed and tried to stand up, but Sandor was quicker, breaking his tiny neck with his heavy boot easily. His companions whipped their weapons away, coming at Sandor at the same time.

Sandor decided to start defending himself. Years ago he could easily take all of them off quickly, but now his leg was making his life more difficult, and he wasn’t a fool to throw himself at his immediate death as if she was his dearest lover. Sandor clenched his teeth, trying to avoid the heavy direct blows from the huge sellsword, focusing on the other two at first. He could deal with them at first, as quickly as he could, so then he will still have enough stamina on fighting the toughest opponent. From the other hand, the sellsword wasn’t even as tall as Sandor was, and he was just a regular man comparing to the bloody Gregor, so there was nothing Sandor had to be concerned about. He jumped to the side, cutting their leader’s hand with a sword, and while the man was cursing and trying to wipe the blood away, Sandor tripped him up. The bugger fell on the ground, knocking off his second companion, and Sandor was about to make the final blow for the leader when the huge sellsword approached him from the side. He was moving quite swiftly for a man of his posture, his blade pointed at Sandor’s leg. The bugger knew how to do _proper_ damage, and Sandor had to forget about the two of his opponents, who were now trying to stand up. He jerked away, crossing his sword with the huge sellsword’s one, trying to move first and punch him to his stomach. He managed to do so, but earned a cut across his face. It wasn’t deep enough, Sandor didn’t even flinch, but his punch won him some time.

He moved back to the weakest men, taking them off rather quickly. They were able to cut him too, the buggering experienced killers they were, one of them even managed to cut Sandor’s wounded leg, but soon he was lying on the ground dead as a nit. The leader of the sellsword was cursing under his breath, his left hand became a mess from Sandor’s blows.

“You’re a tough bastard,” he coughed, the blood spilling through his teeth. “But don’t you worry, even if we will die here we will drag you to your grave where you belong.”

Sansa told him her place was by her side, and so was his. He belonged to her, not to the cold dirty grave. He had already escaped it once, and he was ready to do so again. He jumped away from the sellsword, the pain from his leg striking his whole body, and gripped the bugger from behind, squeezing his hands on his neck. The sellsword started to cough and rattle, cursing Sandor as his breath was slowly leaving him. He even dug out a dagger from the pocket on his coat, trying to stab Sandor with it, but he was too weak for it now. When his body finally stiffened, Sandor threw him on the ground, punching him with his boot to make sure he was dead as well. He took a breath, stretching his wounded hand, but had to jump back straight away. There was one sellsword left, and he wasn’t as tired as Sandor was, so there was no possibility to get even a quick rest.

“Your companions are dead,” Sandor growled, making a blow which was met with the bare blade of his opponent’s sword. “Just surrender and bugger off.”

“So what?” the sellsword’s voice was blank and emotionless, he didn’t even start to pant. “They’re not my friends or my brothers in arms, so I don’t care. I’ll kill you here, find the girl, and get all the money just for myself.”

“Then you must be the biggest fool in the world if you think that bloody Baelish will let you go alive and with your pockets full of golden coins,” Sandor laughed, striking back. “He’ll take the girl and will order to kill you, remember my words.”

“He won’t kill me,” the sellsword didn’t even flinch to Sandor’s words, nor blows. “I’ll crush his tiny head if he will try to trick me.”

“Then I will advise you not to take any food from his hands,” Sandor realised it suddenly became really hard to breathe. He gripped the pommel of his sword, dancing around the sellsword on his crippled leg, blood oozing on the ground. He had cuts everywhere now, his hand was wounded, his face got a nice new scar all across it, and there was a nasty itching feeling near his stomach, Sandor didn’t have time to take a look there but he knew there was a cut too. Maybe the buggering leader managed to harm him with his dagger after all, with Sandor being too busy even to notice it.

“Don’t worry about me, you fool,” the sellsword laughed, but even his laughter was blank and emotionless. “After all, I am going to be the one to get out of this clearing alive.”

“Oh, you won’t,” Sandor clenched his teeth and came at him, blowing his sword at the bugger’s leg. The bugger pretended he was the smart one, but he didn’t even imagine someone could use the same move at him. Sandor knew where to hit, his wound began to ache at the same time he cut the flesh on his opponent’s leg. The sellsword groaned and dropped his weapon, and that was exactly what Sandor needed. He jumped forward, grabbing him by his hear and slit his throat with a swift motion. There was a gurgling noise coming out of his mouth, but Sandor didn’t care. He threw the sellsword on the ground next to his more fortunate companions, who had a privilege to die faster than him, and limped to the side of the clearing, seating himself on the ground under the huge oak.

His leg was itching, the new wound hurting and the old wound had opened too. There was blood everywhere, and when Sandor finally cast a look at his tunic he found it soaking wet. The buggering leader _did_ stab him, Sandor cursed under his breath for being so reckless and not noticing it straight away. He rolled up the edge of his tunic, looking at the proper long cut on his right side. What a nice work from the damned bugger like him. Sandor cursed again, stretching his right hand and moving his eyes to the left side, where his left hand was trembling and covered with the blood too. Sandor gulped and licked his lip, becoming thirsty. He gave all water supplies to Sansa, deciding to use the river nearby in case he will need to drink or wash himself after the battle. But his wounds were itching and his whole body wanted to sit down and have a rest so badly Sandor decided he could wait and get himself a drink a little bit later. He will rest, then get himself a freshwater, then he will wash himself and clear his wounds, and then he will sit down and wait for the Winterfell soldiers to come and get him to the keep. Right, that was all he needed now.

Sandor closed his eyes, trying to calm down his breath. He was sitting under the tree like this once, miserable and almost dead. Back then it was his leg which made him weep as a babe and wish for the fast and clean death, but now Sandor was strangely calm. The ground beneath him was covered by blood, his body hurt and his wounds itched, but he just sighed in a strange satisfaction. He could manage, he decided, but at least Sansa was safe. He killed all of their pursuers, the huge bugger pointed at the fact he would get all the money Baelish promised them, and that meant nobody else would look for the _bastard-bone Alayne Stone_ anymore. And Sansa was already on her way to Winterfell, Sandor knew for sure his warhorse will bring her home safely. He smiled, feeling that a thick fog of the tiredness was covering his mind. He sighed and sank into a deep sleep, or was it an unconsciousness, it didn’t matter at all.

When he opened his eyes again, it was already dark. According to his presumptions, Sansa had to reach her home already, and Sandor knew she did it successfully. There was no confirmation of it, but he just knew. And if she was in Winterfell already, he had to go and wash himself before the arrival of her man. Sandor raised his right hand, and at the same time, he felt a stabbing pain in all his joints. He sucked air through the clenched teeth, the pain so strong he almost fainted. His hand was moving very slowly and Sandor felt as if it weighed like the biggest and heaviest sword in the whole world. He squeezed his eyes, looking at his wounded leg, the blood around it becoming a dark mess. The wound on his right side wasn’t oozing anymore, there was no pain too, but Sandor wasn’t sure he was even able to feel anything below his stomach there. And his left hand wasn’t reacting to any of his mental commands at all. There was no way he could move to the river now, Sandor snorted with a regret, he will have to meet his wife’s man covered in dirt and blood, smelling of the rotten flesh and sweat.

His mouth was so dry it seemed he could drink the whole river in one go. Sandor made and effort and licked his lips, screwing up his face from the pain in his neck. It wasn’t wounded, it had to be his sleeping position which made it so uncomfortable. Sandor tried to laugh, but there was only a dry cough coming from his throat. Oh, he wanted to get at least a little drop of water so badly it hurt and made his body tremble from the soundless laugh.

He closed his eyes again, trying not to think of his pain and needs, imagining Sansa instead. Was she safe? Did her brothers recognised her and welcomed her back to their family? Did she get a big room with the softest featherbed? Was it warm there? Did she eat anything? Was she happy to finally be reunited with her family? Sandor wanted to pray, but he wasn’t sure whom he should ask to keep Sansa safe. And the gods were looking after her anyway, so he decided not to spend his energy on it. He licked his lips again, opening his eyes and blinking, trying to blink away the fog around him. It was getting cold here, though Sandor knew his body was on fire. He shifted a little bit, trying not to think of pain in his leg and hand, and sighed after he finally managed to make himself a little bit more comfortable if anything in his state could be called so.

He tried to think of Sansa again, sweet Sansa, pretty Sansa, her pink lips stretched into a wide smile. He was just thinking of her, but he could swear he felt her sweet smell right next here. He was too weak even to open his eyes to acknowledge she wasn’t sitting next to him, so kept thinking of her, wanting to raise his hand and touch her so badly, he even took a deep breath, trying to gather himself up and then there was a deep darkness, so thick and cold as if he was de--

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> >Chapter 1  
> >he's dead jim


	2. Sandor 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, I decided to update it a little bit earlier, just to make things clearer :'D
> 
> Basically, I have read a lot of fanfics where Sansa was finding herself in the similar situation, took things into her hands - and there we are, everything went better than expected. But as I really like to write Sandor's POVs, plus it was kind of interesting for me to see what would ~~Brian Boitano~~ Sandor (changed!Sandor, that's important) do in the similar situation, so the fanfic was born.
> 
> Please let me know if you have any questions about it, and if you like it too ;)

_Give me some more time_   
_The eighth day of the week will be fine_   
_I simply need to finish what I've started..._

“Hound, wake up!”

Sandor heard the loud knocking on the door and opened his eyes. His head was heavy as if he was suffering from the hangover, his body weighing a tonne as well. Sandor was lying on his stomach, his face buried in the pillow. It was not the best position for a man with his cuts and wounds to lie like that, but Sandor’s body didn’t care for his well-being. Sandor blinked, turning on his left side, the one which wasn’t badly hurt after his fight with the sellswords, and squeezed his eyes shut, trying his best to look around and not throw up from the pain and pressure in his head.

So, he was rescued in the end. Taken by some men and brought in an unfamiliar place, spending some time under the care of a local maester. His body was heavy and even the little movement caused made him groan in pain, but Sandor knew that type of discomfort very well. He simply spent too much time lying down on the same place, his joints aching from the inactivity. Apart from that, he didn’t feel any other pain, not in his twice wounded leg, not in his left hand, which was now following all Sandor’s inner commands. He flipped the thin material which served as his cover and took a look at his left side, the one where the traitorous cut from the sellswords’ leader was.

There was no scar at all.

Well, it would be a lie to say his body was lacking scars, they covered him from his toes to the crown of his head, but the nasty and fresh cut was missing. Sandor raised his eyebrows in a surprise the local maester knew his way into treating newly acquired wounds. Even a wale from his work had disappeared! The bloody maesters of the Red Keep had to take some lessons from this guy for sure, otherwise, Sandor’s skin could stay fresh and untouched by the nasty marks for ages. He sighed, touching the place where the cut was with his fingers. Gods, what an amazing job.

He shifted a little bit, rolling on his back, and rubbed his eyes, finally opening them fully. The ceiling above him didn’t look like if it belonged to a keep, it was too low and had some sort of stains here and there. That meant he wasn’t in Winterfell, at least not in the Keep itself. Sandor had visited that place years ago, but he remembered clearly how high the ceilings were in the rooms they stayed in. As a sworn shield of a little bugger, he was offered a decent room, not as good as the members of the royal family got for themselves, but it was much better than staying together with the soldiers. And the ceiling here had nothing to do with the one he still was able to recall even after so much time.

It took loads of efforts for him, but in the end, Sandor finally seated himself upon the bed, looking around. The room looked a little bit familiar, as if he had already been here. And judging by the shabby furniture around him and a huge screen in the opposite corner of the room, he was in some sort of an inn. Sandor gave a proper rub to the bridge of his nose, trying to chase away the headache and clear his mind from the uninvited thoughts, concentrating only on his situation.

He fought with the sellswords. He was wounded so heavily he even managed to accept he was dying. But then he woke up in the inn, lying down on the huge bed, his wounds healed and his body weak from the hours (days? weeks?) of lying down unconscious. And he wasn’t in Winterfell, which meant he wasn’t found by the Starks men. But someone took him in, brought his weak body to the inn, and even called a maester to take care of him. That was so strange Sandor’s headache slowly crept back.

“For fuck’s sake, are you dead there or what?” there was a loud thumping on his door again. Sandor screwed his face up. What was wrong with the people who brought him here? They placed him in the room, left him on his own, and now were banging into it as if Sandor’s unconscious body somehow managed to lock the door. The only thought of it was so absurd Sandor snorted loudly.

“So you _are_ awake,” the voice from the other side sounded a little bit familiar, but Sandor was too tired after his rough awakening to think about its resemblance to anyone he ever met in his life. “Then get yourself out of the room already, everyone else is ready to move on!”

“Bugger off,” Sandor mumbled, falling on his back and covering his face with his huge palms.

“I beg your fucking _pardon_?” the man on the other side snapped. “Fine, Clegane, if you don’t want to cooperate I will report your drunken behaviour to His Grace.”

These words started to shed light on his current situation. The bugger who was so eager to drag Sandor out of his death, had to serve Stannis Baratheon, unless some changes happened while he was lying here stone cold. But if Stannis Baratheon was still considered by some people as the King, it meant they had to know about who Sandor Clegane was, especially because all Northern Houses had kneeled before the new King, House Stark included. And if Sansa was already home, she had to tell her brothers and their people about her marriage to Sandor, right?

The question was, why in the all seven hells the people of Stannis didn’t bring him to Winterfell.

The bugger on the other side kicked the door and left, muttering something under his breath, probably ran away to complain to _His Grace_ about the disobedience of the former Hound. He was calling him so even now, Sandor noted, and a cold shiver ran down his spine. What if the news from Sansa didn’t approach Stannis and his men, and they were considering him a butcher and a raper? Sandor flinched at the thought, groaning loudly. But why then they took him with them and even spent their time and money to heal them, even getting the maester who worked his magic over deep cuts and revived Sandor to the point he wasn’t feeling any pain on the places of his new cuts?

And why in the seven hells the bugger was blabbering about Sandor being drunk? That guard, or whoever he was, must be out of his mind. The horrors of the recent war were strong enough to break the mind even of an experienced soldier, and something had its deep impact on the poor soul who decided to wake Sandor up and complain to the King about the behaviour of Sandor Clegane. What a poor man, Sandor thought, making the second attempt to stand up. His legs were quite weak, and his head started swimming as soon as he tried to straighten his back, but at least he didn’t fall as if he was some sort of a weakling. Sandor closed his eyes, slowly counted until ten, then opened them again. His head was clearer than before, and he wasn’t feeling an instant urge to throw up anymore. Sandor stretched his tired hands a little bit, an uncomfortable feeling in the joints still present. His left hand was working almost like the new one, the ugly cut also gone. The scattering of all old marks was still present all over his forearm and shoulder, but the new one wasn’t visible anymore, as well as the burn he earned some time ago while battling that Dondarrion prick.

Sandor froze, his eyes glued to the place where that ugly mark was. The skin there was calloused and rough, as it was almost all his life, but the earned scar wasn’t visible anymore. Sandor swallowed, touching that place, trying to proceed the unbelievable thought. his hands moved to his breeches unlacing them with shaky fingers. He lowered them a little bit, taking a proper look at the place where the damaged part of his leg was. Nothing there. No new scar from the sellsword, no ugly mark he got from his brother’s men. Who was the maester of this area, one of the seven gods? Sandor snorted at the thought, putting his breeches back. At some impulse he lifted his hand and touched the left side of his face, too afraid to hope for anything.

The ugliest and nastiest mark was still there. Sandor cursed under his nose with a chuckle. Of course, if the maester decided to heal him as much as it was possible, it had to be his face which was left unattended. Sandor made some slow steps in the direction of a dusty mirror on the wall. his legs were trembling, but he managed to walk there anyway, taking a look at his face. Well. The old bugger was a total cunt. He healed Sandor’s new cut across his face, the one he earned in his last battle, but still decided to left untouched his old scars given him by Gregor. Sandor clicked his tongue, clearly disappointed with the choice of the scars the maester decided to wipe off his body. But at least he did some decent job, and that was already something.

Sandor blinked again, taking the last look at the mirror, and turned over to check if his rescuers left him at least some decent clothes he could wear for their trip. The men were in a hurry, and Sandor suspected they were either going to the place their King was currently based, or to Winterfell. He knew that Stannis left a large number of his soldiers there, as well as in Castle Black and all over the North in particular. There were different options of where they could bring him now, but Sandor dared to hope their destination was Winterfell. He promised his sweet wife he will be there very soon, and now, healed and rested, he was so eager to see her again. He didn’t know who was in charge of the party he had to travel with now, was it some of the military commanders or Stannis himself, but he decided to talk to them and explain his intentions to leave for Winterfell as soon as he could. His initial fear for being the prisoner of the King had slowly faded away, after all, he was left in the room all by himself, even his guard went away, which meant they weren’t afraid of Sandor or expecting him to fight the forces of the new Baratheon king.

Sandor wanted to think that could mean only that Sansa was already home, safely reunited with her brothers and spreading the word about her husband and his allegiance to House Stark. She had to be safe, and that was all Sandor needed to know.

He checked the room for clothes, but found only a tunic on the chair next to his bed. It was old and worn, and kind of resembled the clothing he was wearing during his service at Lannisters. Sandor snorted at the familiar fabric, pulling tunic over, thinking of how strange the irony can be sometimes. Well, at least there was a piece of clothing which could fit his body available, and that was the most important, no matter what memories it could give him. On scrutiny, Sandor realised that the tunic wasn’t as old as he thought at first. The fabric wasn’t ruffled, and there was an embroidery stitch near the collarbone, almost on the same place where he was wounded once by some stupid buggers who were stupid enough to get into a drunken fight with the sword shield of a crown prince. They tried to stab him at night, when Sandor was coming back to the Keep, thinking it was just a mere drunkard returning home - well, it wasn’t. Sandor dealt with them at ease, but one of the buggers managed to cut his tunic and leave an almost invisible mark near his collarbone. With the amount of scars on his body, Sandor almost forgot about it at all, digging it out of his mind only now, when the spare tunic with a similar stitch appeared. Sandor shrugged at the coincidence, smoothing the tunic and decided to check if his sword was still somewhere nearby.

It was, lying on the floor near the entrance, together with the belt. What a disrespect towards the great weapon from the Baratheon’s men. Sandor picked it up, trying not to move too fast, putting the belt on and attaching sword to it with the familiar movement. Having his weapon next to his body made Sandor feel more relaxed and confident. He checked once again if it was comfortable for him to reach for the sword and draw it out, and to his satisfaction, his movements were smooth and quick, none of the wounded parts of his ached at his actions as if he wasn’t wounded recently at all.

Sandor went back to the bed, groping for his boots under it, put them on, and went out of the room. The door was locked from the inside, which made Sandor a little bit confused. Did he turn to be a sleepwalker or something? The thought of it made Sandor laugh, he just simply unlocked the door and went to the dark hall of the inn.

It was quiet around, though Sandor heard muffled sounds from the outside, their party getting ready for their departure gods know where. Sandor was walking to the direction of the stairs, when a woman in simple clothes merged out of the room nearby, holding a pile of washed linen. Judging by the fabric of her dress, she wasn’t a mere servant here, probably she was the head of the chambermaids, or even the wife of the innkeeper or something. Sandor cleared his throat and she almost jumped on her place, clearly taken by surprise with his appearance next to her - well, Sandor’s steps were too quiet for a man of his stature.

“May the Seven devils take you,” she grumbled, latched on to the linen she nearly dropped. “What did you want, m’lord?”

“Who’s the maester of this area?” Sandor asked, ignoring both grumpy attire and false courtesy of the woman.

“There’s no maester in our town,” she shrugged, looking at him with confusion. An old healer is living on the other side of this shitty hole, the nearest maester is in Winterfell with the high lords, not the commoners like us, name’s Luwin.”

“So Winterfell is close to this place,” Sandor muttered, thinking if it was maester from his wife’s keep who travelled to that inn to help him heal.

“‘F course it is,” the woman looked at him if Sandor just said something ridiculous. “Just a couple of hours for your huge party to get there, that’s why the King decided to make a stop at our place last night.”

“Last night?” Sandor raised his eyebrow in a surprise. Now the intentions of his rescuers were looking quite strange, were they dragging his unconscious body from one place to another before making it to Winterfell, or what? Was it because of his wounds that they had to bring him at a certain place to a certain person who could deal with that sort of damage?

“You had too much wine yesterday, m’ lord” the woman spat annoyingly, but at the next moment, her mouth opened in fear, as if she realised only now whom she addressed her words. “I’m so sorry, m’lord!”

“You’re out of your mind, woman,” Sandor barked out a laugh. He was lying somewhere unconscious for days, what she was talking about? “Whatever.”

The woman was looking at him with an unhidden surprise. She was expecting him to bark something unpleasant back, or to start bitching about the use of the title, but Sandor was eyeing her with a blank expression on his face. He wasn’t a hot-headed idiot anymore, the time he spent on Quiet Isle changing him completely. And if the people of Westeros were expecting the good old Hound to act the same way as before, there was a big surprise awaiting them. Sandor tried to imagine the faces of some people from his past he could cross his path with and snorted.

“M’lord?” the woman’s voice was trembling now.

“What?” Sandor asked, crossing his hands on his chest.

“You’re acting differently today.”

“Is it so?” Sandor had to take a proper grip on himself not to start laughing at the pure confusion on the poor woman’s face.

“If you,” she cleared her throat, trying to look more serious. “If you are trying to act so just to get a quick fuck or something, I need to let you know I have a husband.”

She _was_ out of her mind. How could she even think Sandor could be interested in her? She was short, dark-haired, and reminded Sandor of a wolf bitch, his cock wouldn't even react to her presence. But even if she was a fair maiden, beautiful as some sort of a princess from the buggering song, Sandor still wouldn’t be interested in her. 

“And I have a wife,” Sandor shrugged with a snort, walking away from her to finally get outside of the inn and leaving the woman completely shocked.

Sandor walked down the stairs, entering the dining area, which was strangely empty. The King’s party was already outside, but it was kind of strange to see nobody else in the inn. It looked like everyone else was already gone, or maybe even asked to leave to give space for the _noble_ visitors. It was something that Joffrey could do, or maybe even the old drunkard Robert on behalf of his wife, but it was quite strange to think that Stannis Baratheon could order to throw the guests of the inn away. At least from what Sandor heard about the second Baratheon brother, he didn’t look like a total prick, but maybe something changed in his head after he started worshipping that fire god. All followers of that god were fucked up in the head, Sandor knew that very well from his own experience.

The servants also were gone, busy with their tasks and probably helping the party to prepare for their travel. Sandor was too late for the breakfast anyway, so he just grabbed a jag full of water from the counter and made some gulps, soothing the nasty dryness in his mouth.

“You definitely drank too much yesterday,” the buggering Imp commented, appearing out of nowhere as he usually did.

“Bugger off,” Sandor grumbled between the gulps. He just woke up after the days of being unconscious, he needed a proper food and the water, so he was compensating the lack of the first one with a whole jug of clean freshwater. On which Sandor choked immediately, drawing out deep coughs.

What the buggering _Imp_ was even doing here? 

Sandor wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, looking at Tyrion Lannister with a clear confusion. The Imp didn’t return his confusion at all, eyeing Sandor with his usual smirk, the one which was present on his little face every time he was talking to Sandor. And now that smirk looked even more mocking than before, especially after he was married to Sansa for a while. Sandor felt his blood heating up, but quickly calmed himself down, trying not to fell under the spell of his emotions. His angry emotions never led to anything good, that what Sandor was more than sure about.

And it was _him_ who was married to Sansa now, Sandor thought with a tiny spark of a pride, so Tyrion Lannister could go and easily bugger off. The other question was, what he was doing here. Did he sided up with Stannis Baratheon, promising him help and assistance in overthrowing the rest of his own family? He didn’t look like a captive, wandering around freely and having _that smirk_ , so Sandor brushed away that possibility. He looked at the Imp, eyeing him from head to toe, not as if there was a lot to look at, thinking that the little bugger almost didn’t change at all since their last meeting. He had heard that the Battle of the Blackwater had left Tyrion almost noseless and with some other nasty marks, but he looked completely fine for Sandor. He shrugged, apparently, it was just another story made up by people to scare the shit out of their children, or maybe the Imp came up with it himself, so the people all over Westeros would talk about his deeds on the battlefield with a trembling and some fear.

“What are you doing here?” Sandor finally asked, putting the jug back on the counter. He wasn’t looking forward to spending more time with the Imp, so he just wanted to find out how in the seven hells this little bugger ended up with the armed forces of his goodbrother’s brother.

Tyrion Lannister frowned, looking at Sandor suspiciously.

“Are you sure you drank the _wine_ yesterday?” he asked, cocking his head.

“I didn’t have the bloody wine for _ages_ ,” Sandor flinched at the thought what had happened the last time he got drunk. That time he ended up under the tree, wounded and abandoned by the little wolf bitch. It wasn’t something Sandor was proud of, and after the period of fighting himself and his need for a proper drink on the Quiet Isle, he gave up on the wine completely. With Sansa in his life, he had learnt how to have fun in _more_ pleasing ways.

“Then what was that draff you were sipping yesterday after everyone left for their chambers?” Tyrion Lannister asked, looking at Sandor with something which resembled a pity.

“Are you feeling well, Imp?” Sandor asked with a deliberate concern.

“Much better than a man who is standing next to me,” he even dared to mock Sandor. “What’s wrong with you, Clegane? I haven’t seen you that wasted like yesterday for years. And you know, your behaviour this morning didn’t give joy to anyone, so you could expect more screams from our beloved prince today.”

“What are you even talking about?” Sandor snorted. Tyrion was talking an utter bollocks, Sandor wasn’t dealing with any sort of princes for a long time now, abandoning the last one at the battlefield with his best regards. And he wasn’t aware that Stannis had a son, it was a well-known story about his wife not being able to bear an heir for the Lord of Dragonstone. Or his assumptions were right and Stannis wasn’t holding power anymore?

“You know what, Clegane,” Tyrion Lannister sighed, crossing his tiny hands in front of him. “I know that serving my nephew is not the easiest thing in the world, but if it is breaking your mind you can always resign.”

“I’m not serving your nephew, Imp,” Sandor barked out a laugh. Besides, Tyrion Lannister’s wicked nephew was happily dead, what he was even talking about?

“Alright, protecting him, shielding him, or call it how you want,” Tyrion waved his hand. “But just don’t allow yourself go mad, Clegane. Otherwise, he will just throw you away like he always does with the things he doesn’t need anymore.”

“Are you talking about Joffrey?” Sandor narrowed his eyes, trying his best to figure out what was on the mind of Tyrion.

“No, about Tommen,” the Imp chuckled. “You are Joffrey’s sworn shield, of course, I’m talking about him. Now get out of the inn, we are almost ready to leave, it will take us just a couple of hours before we will be in Winterfell.”

“Why are you going to Winterfell?” Sandor asked, a clear confusion in his voice. What on the earth was happening? Why the Imp was talking about his wicked nephew as if he wasn’t poisoned at his wedding? Why everyone kept insisting on the fact Sandor drank himself to sleep last night, when he was recovering from his wounds? Sandor’s head was swimming once again, the ache and nausea returning immediately. The Imp’s words weren’t making any sense, and somewhere deep inside his chest, a little seed of fear was planted.

"You _are_ wasted," the Imp waved his hand as if trying to show Sandor there was no more sense for them to talk. " _We_ are going to Winterfell because our dear King wants to get Lord Stark to serve as his Hand. What will be your next question, Clegane? Why the water is wet? Or why my dear goodbrother is spending the money of the Crown on feasts and wine?"

" _What_?" Sandor asked, his throat suddenly becoming dry.

"Oh, please don't tell me you never paid attention to the amount of golden dragons our King is wasting just because he wants to do so," Tyrion Lannister chuckled. "You've been serving the Royal family for years now, I know you heard at least some rumours about…"

"What do you mean by your words about Ned Stark?" Sandor cut him off, pronouncing each word very slowly, his tongue heavy and dry. He felt a foreign weakness in his legs and grabbed the edge of the counter to make sure he won't lose the balance and just fell on the dirty floor. Never in his life, he was feeling his legs becoming _that_ weak, but now he didn't even think if it was proper enough for a mighty warrior like him feeling himself on the edge of fainting.

"I meant," Tyrion started slowly, eyeing Sandor with a wary gaze. "King Robert is more than sure his old friend will accept his offer and become his Hand instead of late Jon Arryn. Clegane, we are on the road to Winterfell for more than a month now, what's wrong with you?"

"Nothing is wrong," Sandor mumbled, straightening his back and releasing the counter, trying to make a wobbly step in the direction of the door. "Nothing at all."

"You definitely should cut on that shitty stuff you're drinking instead of the wine," the Imp shook his head in disapproval, but Sandor didn't pay attention to his words anymore.

He moved to the door, as swiftly as his body was allowing him at this situation, and opened the door wide. 

“Do-og!” a familiar screeching rang out from the distance. Sandor’s mouth twitched, and suddenly he went weak at the knees, holding at the door handle as if it was his anchor. He turned his head at saw the little blonde prick of a prince swirling at him with the disappointed and disgusted expression on his face.

That was it, Sandor realised. He died from the wounds under that tree and was thrown to one of the seven hells to be tortured by the bloody Joffrey and the others who were dead as some doornails. Even the time he spent on the Quiet Isle wasn’t enough to appease his sufferings in the afterlife, even his sincere feelings for Sansa didn’t redeem all the sins he committed in the past, and the torture the seven gave him was to spend the rest of his afterlife in the company of people he hated the most. Joffrey was already here, standing in front of him and panting from a short run, The Imp was present, so probably was the fat King Robert. Sandor tried to figure out who else could come here for his poor soul, excluding Cersei straight away - from what he heard just a couple of days before his, probably, death was that the Queen was still alive, though her reputation was shattered to the point she became a prisoner in the hands of some religious fanatics. So, no Cersei here, and that was already a good thing. If anything if his situation could be called _good_.

Sandor thought about the Imp, ignoring Joffrey’s blabbering about something. He was also dead. Sandor had no idea what had happened to him, and it appeared that Sansa also had no idea about the fate of her previous husband, but somehow he was dead. Sandor didn’t have any soft feelings for the gargoyle of a man, but pitied him nevertheless. He could have a normal life after the end of the great war, far away from his family and not being tied to his Sansa, but somehow Tyrion Lannister was dead. As well as the joke of a king. As well as Sandor Clegane himself.

The fact that he was dead was explaining a lot of things. Firstly, his wounds had disappeared as if under a spell. There was no maester in the world, who could cure his old wounds, and only the death was able to remove the ugly marks from his body. Still, even the death had the most stupid sense of humour, leaving his facial scars to accompany Sandor even after he died. And he wasn’t able to feel any _proper_ pain which was present at the time of his death, and that was the second thing which clearly stated he was dead. The headache and nausea he had felt before were just a mere phantom pains Sandor had heard a lot about.

“Did you hear me, Dog?” the boy in front of him narrowed his eyes, looking at his sworn shield with an irritation.

“Um,” Sandor decided to nod instead of a reply. During his years serving Joffrey he had already learned how to react during his screeching and splashes of anger - he simply wasn’t listening to any of his words, nodding to anything the little prick would offer, and then go and act accordingly to the plan he had just agreed to. He had changed his behaviour when Sansa had appeared at the court, always being focused on Joffrey’s words and making sure she won’t be hurt even more, but Sansa was alive and it wasn’t present in his afterlife, so Sandor could stick to his old habits, especially if it was his punishment to be glued to Joffrey even after his death. The question was, why did the seven gods had decided to throw Sandor at this particular moment of his life.

When he was on the Quiet Isle, he had spent some of his free time reading. All books there were tightly bound to religious themes, but Sandor was so bored he read them anyway. One of them was dedicated to the stories of some holy men who came back to life after their respective deaths. Those stories were total rubbish and could impress only the kids or fanatics, as everyone else in the world knew for sure that none of the dead were able to get back to life, but Sandor’s choice of literature was narrowed down to the similar works, he didn’t have another choice but to read them. And there was a story of a holy man who died and the seven gods gave him a trial where he was stuck in a certain moment of his life. He would wake up in his bed, leave his bed, go outside, meet the person he made suffered in his previous life, and after that, when he was about to return to his house, he was opening the door and finding himself in his bedroom again. He was leaving his bedroom, walking out of his house, meeting the same person, returning to his place - and then the circle of events was repeating itself, making the poor man relive not a very pleasant moment of his life again and again. In the end, of course, he just had to pray to the seven and ask them to forgive his sins, and then he opened his eyes and found himself lying down on the same spot where he met his “death” which never happened.

Sandor had to turn back to the door and open it, maybe it will work and he will find himself in the inn’s room again. And so he proceeded with his thoughts - turned around, leaving Joffrey speechless from his behaviour, took a deep breath and opened the door.

“What?” Tyrion Lannister asked, standing near the entrance with a jug full of wine.

“Nothing,” Sandor mumbled, turning away and trying to hide his slightly trembling hands from Joffrey’s sight. Nothing happened, it didn’t work. So the gods didn’t set a trial for him, they just allowed him to die and sent them straight to hell.

“Dog!” Joffrey cleared his throat. “I would punish you, but my father insisted that even the _sworn shields_ should have their rights to have their wine when there’s no job for them. And as a prince, I will listen to him, so go and get your stupid horse. We need to move.”

He spun on his heels and retreated to the side of the yard where the Queen’s wheelhouse was. Sandor shook his head and took a proper look there, finding out with the unhidden surprise that Cersei was there, arguing about something with her maids. Next to her a little princess Myrcella was adoring the simple, but very tender flowers growing near the inn. Little Tommen was also nearby, looking at the soldiers in an astonishment, his index finger in his mouth.

That wasn’t right. Cersei was still alive. Myrcella was somewhere in Dorne, but alive as well. And Tommen was the King, and even if he was just a little toy in the hands of more powerful people, he was still safe and sound and married to Margaery Tyrell. There was no way all the family could suddenly die in one or two days, being separated and not knowing what was happening with the other members of their family. The couldn’t be in his afterlife, and Sandor rubbed his eyes, trying to make sure his eyes weren’t lying. He even blinked several times, but Cersei and her children didn’t disappear anywhere.

But if it wasn’t the afterlife, what the _buggering fuck_ was it?

Sandor started slowly walking to the stables, his legs heavy as two useless pieces of iron. He was trying to bring together all his thoughts, but the only one which was beating the alarm in his head was about the fact that Sandor Clegane was afraid. He wasn’t afraid of too many things in his life, the buggering fire and Sansa’s destiny were the only things he was weak too. There was one other time when he felt something close to fear, exactly on the day when the Elder Brother found him on the edge of death, but that was it. And now Sandor was afraid again, and the reason for his fear wasn’t a human being, nor it was a thing or a natural element, like the fire was. Sandor simply had no idea of what was going on, and this darkness in front of him was setting a blind fear into his mind. There was only a darkness full of nothingness, and this was the worst feeling Sandor ever felt in his life.

But the fear was an emotion, Sandor realised when he walked into the stables, trying to pick himself a horse. Maybe he was dead or something like that, and there was no chance he could feel pain or any other physical ache, but he still had his emotions with him. And that was strange, dead people didn’t suppose to have any _emotions_ , simply because they were _dead_.

There was an annoying neigh behind him and in the next moment, Sandor felt someone bit his shoulder.

“You bugger,” Sandor cursed, stroking his shoulder, the corner of his mouth twitching in irritation and _pain_. He turned around and saw an annoyed Stranger, who was looking at Sandor with some sort of a mistrust.

“Stranger?” Sandor whispered, reaching out and trying to touch his horse. The stallion drew back instantly, eyeing his master with an unhidden suspicion. Sandor slowly moved his hand, putting it on Stranger’s muzzle, earning a mistrustful sniff. His warhorse knew who was standing in front of him, Sandor could tell it judging by the relaxed muscles on Stranger’s back, but he still looked somehow confused, starting to sniff Sandor’s hand and tunic, as if he was unable to understand what was going on.

Sandor chuckled sadly, moving his hand a little bit higher and caressing Stranger’s mane.

“I can’t understand anything too, boy,” he laughed, taking a step closer to his horse. Stranger neighed in a questioning tone, looking directly at Sandor as if waiting for his master to explain what exactly was confusing poor animal was currently experiencing.

Sandor continued stroking his mane while he led Stranger out of the stables, checking if his horse was ready to go together with the rest of the party. If he was in the middle of a strange nothingness, he had to follow its rules, Sandor decided. And if the nothingness looked like the bloody day when he had arrived at Winterfell for the first time, he had to obey and go to Winterfell as he was expected to, even if the whole idea and situation sounded like a total rubbish. 

Sandor left Stranger in the yard, giving him another stroke and letting him to scare the others as he usually did, and quickly went back to the inn. If Tyrion and the innkeeper’s wife were right and somehow he _did_ get drunk last night, it meant he could leave his armour anywhere. Sandor didn’t remember seeing it in the room before, but he knew his habits very well, so he walked straight to the place where he somehow woke up after he died. Or survived. Or trapped in the infinite circle of sufferings. Or whatever was happening to him now.

He found his armour under the bed as it was expected. The old habit of kicking it there while drunk was present even in this strange world. Sandor dug everything out and put the armour on, adjusting the sword and making sure he was feeling comfortable like that. He took a look around, checking if there was anything else left in that room, and walked away. Part of him wanted to leave this place as soon as possible, even if the number of ridiculous questions in his head was enlarging with each second.

He went outside straddled Stranger, who was still a little bit wary of his presence, but accepted him anyway. The party was already moving slowly and Sandor hoped he could get a chance to brought up the rear, but then Joffrey screeched again, calling for his loyal dog, and Sandor had to obey, clenching his teeth and trying his best not to act as his heart wanted. Which meant killing the little bugger, but only the gods knew what could happen if Sandor decided to do so.

They were moving not as fast as Sandor was initially expecting, and Joffrey became busy with bitching to some soldiers about something Sandor wasn’t interested in, so he decided to take this time and try to sort everything he knew up to the moment, hoping that the picture of his fate will become a little bit clearer.

_So._

He was travelling with Sansa back to Winterfell, running away from the bloody Littlefinger, and Sansa was his loving wife. Then the danger came, Sansa escaped the pending bloodshed and Stranger took her away, following Sandor’s command and bringing her to her brothers. Then the sellswords appeared, they told him they were looking for Alayne Stone and battled Sandor even after he told them there was nobody with that time around. Then Sandor managed to kill all of them, but was wounded as well, so he crept to the comfortable place under the tree and lost his consciousness. And when he opened his eyes the next time, he wasn’t dead, but somehow found himself in the inn on the day when he was still the servant of the Lannisters and was escorting them, and especially the bloody Joffrey, to Winterfell, where the fat King Robert wanted to ask his friend Eddard Stark to become his Hand.

_But it didn’t make any sense._

Sandor cursed quietly under his breath, trying to fight the nauseating feeling which decided to visit him again. This feeling, the pain from Stranger’s bite, the annoying screeching of the crown prince and many other things were strongly hinting that it wasn’t the afterlife. Things around him were too real for something he read about in the stupid religious books, but the only explanation apart from it was the option that somehow Sandor was swept through the time and space, ending up in his body from many years ago. That would explain the absence of all scars and marks he received later on in this life, as well as the nose of Tyrion Lannister and the fact Joffrey was still alive and annoying as fuck, but there was only one little issue with this version. _Nobody_ was able to sweep through time and space and end up in their younger body, reliving their lives from scratch. And it wasn’t even the _scratch_ in Sandor’s case, if the seven gods were kind enough, they would send him to the time where he was still a young boy with his face untouched by the fire. _Then_ Sandor could try to change his fate, fulfilling the wish of the gods and not repeating the mistakes from his previous life. But he didn’t wake up in the bed of the Clegane Keep, he ended up travelling with the most annoying people Sandor ever met it his life. How could this _speculative_ time-travelling benefit his life, if it was what the gods were going for?

Sandor groaned, feeling the mixture of disappointment, confusion, and despair, and covered his face in his palms, wishing so much this ridiculous nightmare would end as soon as it was even possible.

“Tyrion was right,” there was a clatter of hooves near him and the smug voice of the Kingslayer entered Sandor’s mind. “You should _definitely_ not drink anymore that rubbish you had the last night.”


	3. Sandor 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge chapters are huge...
> 
> Sandor finally reaches Winterfell (just not in the way he wanted in the first chapter, lol), meets Sansa, despairs, has an identity crisis, and gets himself a sudden ally (?). And finally some plot begins.
> 
> By the way, if you are concerned about the major character death from the tag... Well, it had already happened, so no more MAJOR deaths. Like, really major ones, can't promise nothing will happen to the rest of the characters :')

_Why did I have to meet you above all things?_   
_How come, how come that I once fell for you?_   
_I didn’t know that feelings could be this strong -_   
_There’s only pain that now I must endure._

By the time they have reached Winterfell, Sandor’s head was ready to explode. He spent the whole time on a road trying to figure out, what exactly was happening with his life, but his mind didn’t want to cooperate. He was too confused with this whole afterlife thing, or time-travelling thing - gods, Sandor didn’t even know what exactly this buggering thing was, but he wanted his answers right now. Of course, nobody in the King’s party could provide any explanation about his current situation, and Sandor wasn’t eager himself to come to someone and start talking about the bloody thing which was bothering him. He knew well what their answers would be - mocking advice to cut off on the amount of wine his old self used to drink.

Anyway, by the time they have reached Winterfell, Sandor realised he had no bloody idea what was going on. The only thing he was sure of was that just in some minutes he will have to relive his first meeting with the Stark family. His meeting with Sansa.

Oh, of course, she won’t pay any attention to him, just like the years ago when Sandor Clegane arrived at the Northern keep with the travel party of fat King Robert. None of the people present at the yard to greet the protector of the bloody realm had no idea how badly their lives will change just in a short period. None of the people who were currently awaiting the travel party to arrive knew about all those changes, none of the people who were escorting the King to Winterfell knew about all those changes. Sandor was the only one with this burden of knowledge, and it was unfair.

If he was dead, it was a bloody cruel joke from the stupid gods, to make him suffer from this knowledge and a zero chance to change anything in his life. And what life he was even thinking if he was already dead?

But if he was alive and somehow managed to wake up in the morning of a certain day of his life, then Sandor had no idea what he had done in his previous life to earn this sort of a punishment. Well, he wasn’t the most perfect and pious person, he killed loads of people, but it was his job and he had to act accordingly - then, why _he_ had to be the only one to endure such a punishment? It was simply _unfair_.

There was a song his mother used to sing from time to time sitting on the edge of his bed and waiting for her little son to fall asleep. Sandor didn’t remember it clearly, he wasn’t remember so many things from his childhood, but somehow the plot of a stupid song the smallfolk from his mother’s birthplace used to sing stuck in his head. It even used to frighten him when Sandor was a little child. There was nothing special in it, even the melody wasn’t memorable enough, but the story told about a young lad whose bride had died after falling with some sort of an old illness. The lad, of course, was mourning his love and decided to stay next to her lifeless body until the day of her funerals, and at the last night of his vigil, he was approached by the Stranger himself. Apparently, the god was somehow touched by the devotion that poor lad showed, or maybe it was the Maiden who send him there, Sandor had no idea, but in the end, the mighty Stranger offered to take devastated lad back in time, where his bride was still alive and full of health. The only thing he asked the lad to promise was not to try to make any changes in the fate of his bride, and he agreed to any offer just to get another chance to spend some more time with a girl he loved.

Of course, he broke his promise and tried to save his bride. Sandor didn’t remember what the lad had done exactly, but his bride didn’t get her sickness, so in the end, both lovers were able to celebrate their wedding. There were two verses in the song which described how big and splendid their wedding was, and when the guests called for the bedding, the lad took his bride’s - now wife’s hand and kissed her. And then she turned into a dust. End of story.

Sandor’s mother used to tell him this song was to remind people about the importance of their lives, and that everything that had happened with them had its sense and meaning. The seven gods were the ones to decide which way each person had to take, and going against their wishes could lead to a terrible consequence. Sandor Clegane was a man, who tried to challenge these gods all along his life, and here was his punishment. Reliving his miserable life without any possibility to change its most cruel or wrong moments was a torture indeed, and the only thing Sandor could do now was to clench his fists and try not to do any stupid mistakes.

After all, he didn’t want Sansa to turn into dust.

But it was just a stupid song, Sandor thought after his warhorse stopped with the whole party right in front of the Winterfell gates. A stupid song written by the smallfolk who had a vivid imagination and were browbeaten by the septons and their scary stories of the mighty gods. There was no way this song could turn into a reality, especially into Sandor’s reality, but somehow it stuck in his head, reminding him that there was no way for him to try and change something in his life. Or in the lives of people who were surrounding him.

He just had to simply grin and bear the fact he will have to leave with the knowledge of his future and act accordingly. Even if it was unfair. Sandor wanted to punch something or someone, or to get himself a wineskin full of dornish red, even though he completely cut down on it. Or to do anything else what could help him to overcome his frustration.

More than that Sandor wanted to get to sleep and wake up back in _his_ world. Or _his_ timeline, depending on what exactly was happening to him.

“Clegane, wake up,” the Kingslayer snorted almost into his ear. “I have no idea what is happening to you, but try at least to look presentable in front of these northerners. Well, as much as presentable as it is possible in your case.”

Sandor shook his head, showing no reaction to Lannister’s words. But he was right, if Sandor had to adapt to the current situation it was better not to attract too much attention to his strange behaviour. After all, he had already received a handful of angry glances from Joffrey during their travel, thanks to the morning incident. Tyrion Lannister was completely ignoring him, and the rest of the Royal family didn’t interact with him properly to spot any changes in their faithful Hound.

Who, in fact, wasn’t the Hound anymore.

The gates of Winterfell were opened, and Sandor took a deep breath. There was no way for him to escape his fate, he had to relive this moment once again, thanks to any divine power above him. Or maybe under, Sandor had no idea where these gods had their home. He latched onto reins and guided Stranger inside, hoping so much he won’t do anything stupid.

As the sworn shield of Joffrey Baratheon, his place was somewhere near the bloody prince. Sandor moved to his side quickly, being glad that his helm was hiding the expression of his face, which, in his own opinion, had to be very stupid at that moment. He was a coarse and a bloodlust warrior, who was called the Hound not without a reason. He went through hundreds of battles, he slew thousands of people, he was guarding the prince and acted mercilessly upon his requests. There was no way someone could notice his nervousness, which was slowly creeping in his mind and body, making his fingers sweaty and trembling.

Sandor didn’t want to be that man anymore. the Hound was dead, but somehow the gods wanted him to be alive. And maybe they plan could even be quite successful, but there was one crucial issue which made all their actions futile.

Sandor Clegane was a changed man. And even if he tried very hard, there was no way he could be the Hound once again. Well, he still could fight, he could act as his previous self to some point, but he could never _be_ the man he was before. This knowledge was making Sandor somehow stronger.

This knowledge could weaken him in a blink of an eye.

Sandor decided not to dismount his warhorse yet. Instead, he used his advantage of being a sworn shield, a man on the background whose task was not to attract too much attention (which didn’t always work in Sandor’s case, thanks to his ugly mug), so he stayed quiet behind Joffrey and took a proper look around.

Lord Stark was already exchanging greetings with the fat King, his family patiently waiting for their turn to hear a word from Robert Baratheon himself. Lord Eddard Stark looked exactly as Sandor remembered him - well, apart from the fact that the last time Sandor saw him in his old life the Warden of the North lacked his _body_. It was so strange to look at him now and keep in mind than less in a year he will be dead. And his wife, standing next to him tall and proud, will be dead as well, slain by their fake allies.

Sandor threw a glance to the rest of Lord Stark’s family. His eldest son, the bloody King in the North. Dead. His second son. Alive, but a cripple until the end of his days. His youngest son, who was watching the guests with his index finger in his mouth. Alive. His daughter, the wolf bitch she was. Lost. His…

Thanks gods he still had his helm on. Sandor was staring at Sansa, so young and innocent, and suddenly his fingers were trembling again. She was standing there, a small blush appeared on her cheeks while she was trying to steal a glance from Joffrey, and Sandor felt a sharp, stabbing pain appearing in his chest. Bloody hell, he was so lucky he decided to keep his helm on, there was no way the current expression on his ugly face was calm and neutral. Sandor gulped, trying to take his eyes off of Sansa, but it took him less than a second to realise his attempt to do so was completely pointless.

Sansa didn’t pay any attention to a gloomy figure on the horse near her perfect prince. Of course she didn’t, she was still so young and with her head full of stupid dreams and songs, she wouldn’t even have a single thought to spare a glance for a scarred and angry bastard Sandor Clegane was. The worst thing was that all those songs and dreams will be beaten out of her pretty head very soon, her smile will disappear for a long time, and there was no way Sandor could save her from that fate.

She will flinch in pain, she will muffle her cries with a pillow in her chambers, she will be humiliated with a marriage to Tyrion Lannister, she will have to spend time locked in a castle with that pervert Baelish. And then she will tell Sandor she loves him - and will lose him for good very soon after that.

Sandor thought that whatever gods prepared for him was unfair. The destiny of Sansa Stark was the only unfair thing here.

Sandor grit his teeth, watching the shy stares Sansa was throwing in Joffrey’s direction. Bloody hells. He had hoped that his piss poor experience of reviving his life will be at least somehow tolerable, especially if he would be able to play his role perfectly. Well, he was wrong. So wrong.

He would have to watch Sansa with Joffrey. He would have to stay behind the wicked boy when he will torture and mock his poor betrothed. He would be able to help her the same way as he helped her before, and what poor help was it! He would have to scare her, to laugh at her stupid courtesies, to run away like a beaten dog to disappear from her life for ages - until they will be reunited for a ridiculously short period before Sandor will be killed once again. 

The problem was, Sandor didn’t want to obey the stupid wish of the stupid gods and relive all the shit both he and Sansa went through obedient like a lamb.

“Dog,” the joke of a prince dragged him out of his thoughts with his usual screeching. “Dismount and see to your duties.”

Sandor wanted to ask Joffrey to fuck off for good, but as his sworn shield, he had to do everything this little bugger commanded. He got down from his horse, checked his sword and took off his helm, trying to make sure his hair was hiding the biggest part of his scars. He came to Joffrey’s side and the crown prince pouted, not happy with his faithful dog’s behaviour.

“We’re going to our rooms, dog,” he announced with a clear irritation in his voice. “They gave all of us a proper place to stay, as I was told, even you will sleep in a _room_ next to mine.”

Sandor nodded, trying to stay as indifferent as possible, and followed Joffrey, who decided that now was the best time to lurk around and try to find something that could lessen his boredom. He acted the same _the last time Sandor was in Winterfell_ , so there was nothing strange in his behaviour. Besides, Sandor decided to use this time of doing nothing to look around as well, and maybe to come up with some smart thoughts or decisions.

The only thought which appeared in his head by the time Joffrey said he was tired and walked to the chambers the Stark family prepared for the Royal family, was that he needed to broke his unspoken vow and get himself a proper drink tonight. There was a feast planned, after all, and by the time Sandor stepped in the small, but neat room which had to become his sleeping place for the next weeks, he had already known that somewhere in the crypts Lord Stark and King Robert agreed to join their houses through the marriage of their children.

Whatever, Sandor thought, putting his helm on the table. He was the only person in the whole Westeros who knew that bloody Joffrey Baratheon will never become a husband of Sansa Stark. And he, Sandor Clegane, will. And, unlike Joffrey, it was him whose attention and embraces were making Sansa smile and feel truly happy. Even if for a short time.

If only he could make her happy for the rest of her life.

Sandor sighed and kicked the table leg in frustration. It was a childish action, he knew it, but what else could he do, apart from drinking and making things even worse? He knew that the body he was currently in was his old one, the one which lacked some of his ugly scars and missed a limp. That also meant it was used to drink the same amounts of wine he had almost every day before getting too drunk and nearly killed by Gregor’s men. That meant if he would have some wine now, his body and mind won’t take it as something foreign, something which could make him sick and good or nothing. Sandor knew what could happen to people who got their first drink after spending months without any wine drop, and he didn’t want that fuckery to happen to himself.

His body wouldn’t mind if he took himself some wineskins after the feast, but Sandor clenched his teeth and decided not to play with his luck. It will be much better if he won’t go back to his old and dangerous habits, even if that meant he will have to deal with the buggering thoughts on his own.

Sandor’s possessions were already brought to the room, but he decided to keep the same clothes he was travelling in. Who would even care about his appearance? It was well-known that Joffrey won’t allow him to take a seat and eat with the rest of the Robert’s soldiers, he was a dog, and his duty was to stand behind his master and make sure nobody will try to harm him. Sandor was used to spending all feasts and gatherings like that, having his meal only after Joffrey would dismiss him for the rest of the night. And the main task of the sworn shield of someone douchey as Joffrey was to stand there and frighten his enemies, not to attract the attention of someone present at the feast because of his _clothes_.

He brushed his hair with his palm and left the room. Joffrey was nowhere to be seen, and Sandor decided to use this time to stroll the area close to their chambers. And if the crown prince will need him, there was no doubt Sandor would hear his screeching from any part of the keep.

The yard was almost empty, the servants of the northern Lord were too busy preparing for the feast, the members of Sandor’s travel party were seeing to their tasks or simply preparing themselves for the afternoon. Sandor went to the stables and checked on Stranger, who was not impressed with the surroundings he was put into. And, judging by the way the poor stableboy was holding his hand, Stranger had already tried to bite him as he always did with the people he didn’t know.

There was nothing else in the stables for Sandor to do, and the buggering Joffrey was quiet and wasn’t looking for him, which was a little bit strange, but then Sandor remembered that the last time his _kind-of-father_ invited Joffrey to his temporary solar to discuss his betrothal to little lady Sansa. Sandor had no desire to be around them and listen to Joffrey’s whining about not wanting to marry this girl, so he continued wandering around, not looking for anything particular. He checked the smithy and had a quick conversation with the local smith about making new horseshoes for Stranger, as they would benefit him for the whole journey back to King’s Landing.

He went back to the courtyard exactly on time, as he finally heard a muffled screeching from the guesthouse. The crown prince was looking for his lost dog, and Sandor had to grant his wish. He met Joffrey next to the stairs, the boy looked disappointed and frustrated, but Sandor was able to notice he was thinking of something at the same time. Probably about his betrothal.

“Dog,” he said after some minutes they spent in total silence. “My father had found me a bride.”

Sandor shrugged, showing his total indifference to the matter of the relationships between noble families.

“I know my father will ask you to keep my betrothed safe,” Joffrey continued, his hands crossed on his chest and his face wrinkled in disgust. “But you must remember you’re _my_ dog. Understood?”

Sandor nodded. Of course, he understood each word this bastard was telling him. The thing was, Sandor didn’t agree to _follow_ any of his words.

Another thing was, he wasn’t a _dog_ anymore. But it was better to hide it from Joffrey for now.

“Good,” the prince smirked. “I will dismiss you for today, so you can _enjoy_ the feast with the others. I don’t think there will be a place for you at the _royal_ table, but you can sit with the soldiers, they won’t dare to kick you away.”

Sandor cocked his eyebrow. It was something unexpected. The last time he stayed with Joffrey until the end of the feast, guarding him silently, and when the boy and his family left to their chambers, Sandor went to the kitchen and got himself some leftovers from the feast and two full wineskins. It was something he was used to, so the sudden change of his plans made him wonder what exactly happened in King’s solar.

“Isn’t this my duty to guard you?” he rasped, trying not to sound surprised.

“I don’t think anyone will _dare_ to assault me during the feast,” Joffrey wrinkled his nose and Sandor had to try very hard not to snort. After all, he still remembered how exactly Joffrey will lose his life later on. “Besides, after your _unacceptable_ behaviour this morning I am afraid you will do something even less acceptable, which will disgrace my family in front of these northerners. So just go and disappear somewhere.”

Sandor bowed his head and Joffrey left straight away, mumbling something under his nose. Sandor’s mouth twitched in irritation, but he regained his temper and took a deep breath. Bloody hells, how his old self was able to endure this little shit?

Sandor shook his head, trying not to think that his _old self_ wasn’t much better than Joffrey Baratheon. Well, maybe he wasn’t a dumb and sadistic little boy with a twisted mind, who got the power in his hands, but still, he wasn’t _better_. He was thriving on the feelings of anger and hatred, doing everything he was commanded - well, _almost_ everything. Because something in him had changed straight away when he saw little lady Sansa broken after her father’s death for the first time.

Every dog needed the final, most cruel kick from their masters to realise it could disobey their orders and bite back. For Sandor, the empty and tearless eyes of Sansa were that particular final kick.

And now he had to relive it once again.

Buggering gods.

Sandor cursed and went to the training yard. There was no one around, but he was dismissed from his duties for the rest of the day, so Sandor wanted to spend the time before the feast in a relatively quiet place. The courtyard was the most perfect spot to hide, it was huge and there was no one to be seen near the armoury. The soldiers were busy with their tasks, and there were a couple of benches he could sit and be sure he will be left alone.

Sansa used to tell him that the most quiet place which can be found in every keep was the godswood. She spent hours and hours in it while being trapped in the Red Keep. Sandor would follow her example, but for now, the local godswood wouldn’t be the most perfect place to hide. Firstly, Sandor overheard the words of some servants who were talking about the direwolves being left there, so the huge animals won’t irritate the Queen. And from the other hand, he was now visiting a place where true northerners lived. The local godswood wasn’t an abandoned place where a scared and despaired little girl could hide from her captors. It was a sacred place for the people who lived here, so there was a chance somebody could be there, praying to their gods or simply rejoicing in the silence around them.

So, it had to be the courtyard for him to hide. And Sandor was right, nobody paid any attention to the fact that the sworn shield of the crown prince simply seated himself on one of the benches next to the building of an armoury. Sandor crossed his hands in front of him, lying back on the cold wall, and closed his eyes. He wanted to have a quiet time and not even think of the mummery he was trapped into, but his head was full of buzzing, annoying thoughts he simply couldn’t relax.

The worst thing was now his thoughts were messed up, he wasn’t even able to concentrate on one of them. He was starting to think about his second experience of all the events he had already gone through, but then his mind was foisting him unpleasant pictures of Sansa’s humiliation at the court. Sandor cursed, hoping that the memories will fly away, but then his thoughts were tricking him again, and suddenly he was overwhelmed with a drawling sense of despair, which didn’t give him any chance to hope that his life was in his own hands.

No, it wasn’t. His _previous_ life was fully depending on his choices and actions. And now he was just reliving it, a miserable and despaired fool he was. And there was no single chance for him to escape his fate.

Sandor heard a loud voice of a castellan, who was calling some of the servants to the great hall. It was the time to move in the direction of the great hall, where everything for the feast was already prepared. Sandor sighed, opening his eyes and rubbing his knuckles on his temple. He was feeling himself like a huge piece of rubbish, both physically and emotionally. His head was ready to blow up from all the thoughts and feelings he was currently having, and Sandor knew that a proper wine could heal him in a second, but it wasn’t an option.

Fuck. Why the hells it had to be _him_ to endure all this shit?

The great hall of Winterfell was already full of guests and local people. Sandor found a place for himself, ignoring the stares of the soldiers who weren’t happy to have him as their company, and trying to ignore everything that was happening around. His mind dug out of nowhere a picture of happy and blushing Sansa walking to this hall by Joffrey’s side, and Sandor lowered his head to not to look around. Looking at his empty plate wasn’t the best choice, especially taking into account the fact he had his last meal on the road hours ago, but he couldn’t allow himself to _look_ at Sansa being so glad that the handsome and gallant prince walked her into the hall, her smile so bright and her dreams full of sweet and naive pictures of her future wedding to that blond cunt.

Her _wedding_ didn’t look like any picture she was imagining herself this evening. Actually, _both_ her wedding didn’t look like the pictures in her head. Sandor didn’t want to think about the first one at all, he had already had a quite hard time not to do anything to bloody Tyrion Lannister during their travels, the buggering Imp being too cocky and irritating all way along. But Sansa had a second wedding too, and that one was the wedding to remember. At least for Sandor. He never thought he will get himself a wife, he lost all his hope and dreams the day he woke up after the _accident_ and saw his burnt face for the first time, but then Sansa happily agreed to marry him. Their wedding was rushed, she didn’t have a beautiful gown and he didn’t even have the cloak with his sigil to give her, but the kiss she gave him was the sweetest one he ever experienced. She was smiling at him and her eyes were full of hope and warmth, and Sandor thought he will make everything to see these emotions in her stare until the moment the death will part them from each other.

Well. He did see those emotions until the end of his death. Fucking gods took his stupid wish too close to their hearts. If they even had hearts, of course.

Sandor was sitting and staring into his plate. He heard the music starting to play, and then the loud cheers and laughter and singing were everywhere around him, but he never raised his head to look at the Starks or the Royal family. He wanted to disappear from this hall, but, unfortunately, it wasn’t an option.

The food was served and finally, Sandor got a chance to concentrate on something else apart from his memories and despaired thoughts. He ate quickly, washing food down with fresh water. The temptation to pour himself a wine was strong, but Sandor stick to his decision and ignored the thirst of his body for something stronger. He wanted to finish with his meal as fast as it was possible and leave, so he won’t have to fight the second temptation which was tickling him since the moment when the noble guests and hosts had finally taken their places at the high table.

To raise his head and steal at least one glance from little lady Sansa. Pretty lady Sansa. Shy, but so perfect lady Sansa who would become his wife one day.

Unfortunately, the road to that day was full of blood, tears, and broken dreams.

When the soldiers around him started to sing some coarse songs, Sandor realised it was a time for him to leave. He pushed back his plate and goblet and stood up, checking his sword and brushing his hair to cover the left side of his face.

“Already leaving?” one of the Baratheon’s soldiers hiccupped, clearly amazed that someone wanted to leave the feast this early.

“Let him be, Gar,” another one chuckled, eyeing Sandor out of the corner of his eyes. “Sometimes dogs need to spend their times alone - you know, dig some bones, piss on the trees, or whatever they’re doing there.”

  
The rest of the soldiers burst into laughter. Sandor raised his eyebrow, not reacting at the words of the drunken man at all. he wanted to steer clear, so there was no way he would engage himself into a fight with these idiots. After all, he was sober and still had both his clear mind and honour. Or whatever this thing was, Sandor didn’t like to call it _an honour_ , especially after meeting some _too honourable_ men in his life. He knew very well how exactly the lives of all those men had ended.

“Oi, Hound,” one of the soldiers called him when Sandor was about to turn and leave. “Don’t you want to join us later on?”

“For what?” 

“We want to go to Wintertown after the feast,” the young man next to him replied, his face already red from the amount of wine he has drunk. “You know, to have some fun there.”

There were some stupid giggles around, and Sandor snorted. Of course, what he was expecting from the drunken men who had spent more than a month on the road.

  
“Bugger off,” he said in the most _friendly_ way he was able to and went away, leaving the young man gaping like a fish, while his friends were laughing at his expression like the bunch of madmen.

The servants who were running back and forth across the hall didn’t pay any attention to him. Maybe they didn’t care that someone wanted to leave the feast that early, maybe they just were scared to even look at him, It was something Sandor got used to, so he shrugged to his unspoken question and went to the door. He decided to visit the stables, check on Stranger, and then simply go to his room. Maybe he was dismissed for today, but with the first rays of sunshine, he would become Joffrey’s silent guard once again.

He wanted to leave the bloody feast quick and unnoticed, his hand was already on the doorknob, but then the buggering musicians ended playing their another joyful tune, and suddenly he heard the laughter. _Fuck_. If Sandor was blindfolded and put in the darkest room full of loud noises, he still would be able to recognise _this_ laughter without any trying. The laughter so sweet, clear, and overwhelmed with joy.

He wanted to leave, but his mind and body betrayed him, and Sandor spun on his heel, his eyes finding Sansa straight away. She was sitting at the high table, her cheeks red, her smile so wide, her eyes full of happiness. She was enjoying everything that was happening around - the sounds of music, the feast, and, most importantly, _the handsome prince by her side_. Joffrey had just told her some of his stupid jokes, but even it was enough to make Sansa laugh and blush, throwing shy glances at him through her eyelashes.

She was so happy now, and Sandor realised there was a sharp pain in his chest. And it wasn’t jealousy - how on the earth he could be jealous of _bloody Joffrey_? Well, if just a little bit, but still, it wasn’t a proper jealousy - may be an irritation and pure desire to chase him away from sweet Sansa. But still, the pain in his chest, which was getting bigger and bigger with each second, wasn’t caused by it.

It was a feeling of a strong calamity, Sandor realised. Sansa was sitting there, glowing with joy, and Sandor knew that it won’t take long before this wide and sincere smile will disappear from her face. He had thought about it before, but now, looking at Sansa like this and realising he could do _nothing_ with his thrice-damned knowledge, was making Sandor’s legs weak.

He also wanted to be by her side so much it hurt. He wanted to be the one who would put this smile on her face, he would speak to her, listen to her sorrows, laugh with her, calm her down when she was stressed or overwhelmed with some emotions. He knew that one day he _will_ become that man in her life, but Sandor didn’t want to wait. He didn’t want to feel her fear and disgust towards him once again, nor he wanted to observe her childish affection for some handsome knights. Gods, she was his wife - or she will be his wife one day, there was no way he would stay calm while watching her clumsy attempts to flirt with some random men at court.

  
Sandor shook his head, trying to calm the sudden wave of this strange possessiveness. He couldn’t act like this, he had to accept the way of things and do everything that was required by the _timeline_ he was reliving. But no. Fuck, it was too much even for a strong man like him, or maybe he wasn’t as strong as everyone was expecting him to be? His body was capable of fighting, but his mind was way more fragile, it was always flooded by the myriads of different emotions, though he was always able to have them under control.

_Until he fell in love with Sansa and found it she loved him back._

It was too much and he had to leave. He had to know his place, and at this moment it wasn’t by Sansa’s side. Sandor opened the door, glancing at Sansa for the last time, and suddenly her eyes found his. Her pretty face went pale and there was a fear in her stare, and Sandor froze. She averted her gaze straight away, fearing to look at him more than it was needed, and Sandor realised that the pain he felt in his chest before was nothing to the one which appeared there now. He knew Sansa will be frightened by him. He remembered how nervous and stiffened she became while being next to him during the first months after their initial meeting. He thought he was prepared to relive all those things once again.

He was wrong.

The dull pain was ripping his chest apart and Sandor stormed out of the great hall, the heavy door closing with a loud thud behind him. He didn’t care if someone would notice him leaving like this, but Sandor was sure nobody paid any attention to him. Everyone in the great hall was busy with the feast, and there was no place for him there.

There was no place for him in _this_ world at all.

  
There was no place where he could go and hide from all those thoughts and pain. He had to take a grip on himself, but the time he spent on Quiet Isle and later on together with Sansa had changed him. Sandor learnt that keeping all his emotions inside wasn’t the way to solve his problems, but there was no Elder Brother around, and Sansa wouldn’t even listen to him if he decided to approach her and simply talk about all the shit which bothered him. Later on, she will be able to hear him, to calm him down with her words and caresses, but it took _years_ for her to accept him with all his thoughts, fears, and insecurities. She couldn’t help him, and Sandor had already forgotten the other ways to deal with his emotions.

He thought of taking his warhorse and go away, spending the night on his own in the forest, where nobody would see him, but Stranger needed to have some rest. Sandor cursed, changing his mind and walking to the guest house as he initially intended, but then raised his head and saw the tiny building of a sept. The sept of Winterfell was even smaller than the one they had on Quiet Isle. There was light inside, but Sandor doubted anyone was there, at least he was able to spot the septon in the great hall before the start of the feast. Sandor clicked his tongue and then snorted. He wasn’t a pious man, even the time he spent among the silent brothers of faith didn’t change his mind at all, but there was no one to be seen in the sept, and nobody would bother him there for the next couple of hours, Sandor was sure of it.

He went inside, trying not to snort at the thought what the rest of the King’s party could think if they spotted him walking through the sept’s door. Probably, they would decide they had too much wine at the feast, if they had already started seeing the coarse and blasphemous Hound going to the holy place of his own free will. Not that he cared about the opinion of the others.

The sept of Winterfell was even smaller inside than it appeared to be. There were seven tiny altars with the figures of seven gods carved out of wood. Sandor took a glance at them and decided he didn’t like them. He knew that the sept was built here by the request of Lord Stark, who wanted to make his wife’s life easier after her relocation to the North. The figures were made by his fellow northerner, who had his gods and didn’t give a damn about the seven, maybe that was exactly why their faces didn’t look _holy_ enough, and their stares were judging anyone who stepped across the threshold of the building.

Right now they were judging Sandor with the all force their tiny wooden faces were able to, and he flinched uncomfortably. Or maybe it was nothing to do with the woodwork of an unknown man, but rather with his attitude towards the seven. When he was on Quiet Isle, the Elder Brother helped him to understand the whole reason of the faith in seven a little bit more. This knowledge didn’t change Sandor’s mind or views, but at least he was able to _tolerate_ these gods and their presence in the lives of people who were surrounding him.

  
And now he was disappointed in them _again_.

These gods robbed him of his future, killed him with the hands of some buggering sellswords, and left Sansa unprotected and frightened. These gods decided to make him suffer even after his respective death, throwing him back in time and making him relive almost the all worst moments of it, spending years in humiliation and despair from not being able to help Sansa. These gods were as cruel and dumb as Sandor had pictured them to be after Gregor burnt the half of his face and didn’t get any punishment for it.

Fuck. _Gregor_. If Sandor was right and it wasn’t a stupid afterlife which would turn into a dark nothing as soon as this day will end and he was thrown back in time, it meant that Gregor was still alive. And if the things had to go the same way as they did before, it also meant that Sandor will have to face him very soon. And get another attempt to kill him, but this time it will be just a mockery and not a _real_ attempt. Sandor knew he had to stop when the fat King will ask him to do so, and Gregor will live. From the other side, this time Sandor knew about all the moves his brother would use during the fight. He could take the whole situation in his hands and use this knowledge for his good, killing Gregor right in front of the crowd. Will gods be angry at him for doing so and changing the whole way of some events? Maybe they could forgive him for doing so?

But killing Gregor will mean that Sandor had lost his inner fight. And that the efforts of the Elder Brother to soothe the rage within him and help Sandor to understand that sometimes getting the revenge with a simple kill won’t bring any peace to his soul will be futile. Killing his brother could turn him back into a heartless killer, and Sandor didn’t want to come back to his old self. He wanted to be _that_ Sandor who had left Quiet Isle together with his little wife. He wanted to stay true to his current self.

But letting Gregor live was too dangerous. Fuck, everything was so complicated and Sandor felt an annoying headache from the morning to return. The judging faces of the gods were staring at him, and Sandor clenched his teeth.

“What, happy now?” he grumbled, addressing to no one particular. There was no one around, and the gods, the buggers they were, wouldn’t answer him anyway.

Sandor looked around, feeling stupid and miserable. He also felt something that reminded him of an old and well-known anger, which was his constant companion in his _old_ life. But the thing he felt now was so weak and full of despair, it was ridiculous to even think that he, Sandor Clegane, the bloody Hound, was capable to feel something like that.

But complaining to the mute gods like this was much better than engaging himself into a dull fight or drinking himself into oblivion.

“Why you, buggers, are so dull?” he shrugged, knowing that there won’t be any answer from the wooden figures. “I was told you can help people, even the sinners, so where is your so-called helping hand?”

The seven continued to stare at him with a clear judgement in their eyes. Sandor looked around, noticing that the figure of the Stranger was missing his usual cowl and that the lips on the Maiden’s face were twisted as if she was disgusted with something. Or with someone. Just like Sansa was when she flinched away in the great hall.

The pain in his chest was back.

  
“Why did you take her from me?” he felt himself whispering these words, his nails sunk into the rough skin on his palms. “Maybe you hate me, I got it, but why have you done it to _her_?”

Sansa was a devoted follower of the seven, and Sandor knew she prayed for him to the old and new gods. She had also prayed for their happiness, even when they were on the run she was always able to find some time for her prayers. Maybe Sandor was a sinner, but why the hells these gods decided to make her suffer as well?

His fate was unfair. The whole life of Sansa Stark was unfair. Everything the seven were doing was unfair.

“I hope she doesn’t feel any pain,” he whispered, feeling so weak.

“ _Clegane_.”

At first, Sandor thought he had finally lost his mind and started to hear voices in his head, as if one of the seven decided to finally pay a visit to a sinful and broken Hound. But he quickly shook off this stupid illusion and turned around, hoping so much his face isn’t showing any of those emotions which were ripping his chest and mind.

Lady Stark observed him with an unveiled surprise. She came to the sept to offer her prays to the seven as she always did- after all, the Lady of Winterfell was known for her sincere devotion to gods.

Sandor made a quick bow of acknowledgement and stepped to the side, giving her space to proceed with her prayers. But Catelyn Stark didn’t move, her stare pierced to his huge figure. Being eyed like this was quite uncomfortable, but at least she wasn’t judging him like the wooden figures of the seven.

“I never thought you to be a man who worship any God,” she said with a sheer amusement in her voice.

Sandor shrugged, the corner of his mouth twitching as always. He didn’t want to hold any conversation even with the Lady of this place, he wanted to be left alone with his despair. But she was awaiting his answer, and giving her an answer was the only opportunity to get back his solitude.

“I’m not worshipping even these gods,” he rasped with a slight annoyance in his voice, but Catelyn Stark didn’t even notice it.

“You say so, but at the same time you decided to honour the Seven with your presence, instead of following your brothers in arms and filling your body and mind with the sweetest wine.”

She finally stopped staring at him and made her way to the Mother’s altar. Right, the most proper place for a Lady like her.

Sandor slowly observed her lighting a candle and saying her almost silent prayers. He had no idea what she was praying about, but they had to be about her children. She had five of them, and Sandor knew that very soon she will lose at least one of them for good. And then she will be slain too.

“You’re the sworn shield of the Prince,” Lady Stark suddenly said, dragging Sandor out of his memories about the future.

“And?” he shrugged, having no idea why did she have to acknowledge the well-known thing.

“I know what people are saying about you,” she continued with her thoughts, still facing the silent figure of the Mother. “They say you’re a rabid dog, a ruthless killer who will do anything his masters will order.”

“Aye, that’s who I am,” Sandor confirmed. He wasn’t the man Catelyn Stark was describing anymore, but he decided not to disappoint her by telling her he was a changed man now. 

“But you are not the man they are picturing,” she suddenly said and Sandor choked on his breath.

“The rabid dog is a very soft description I’ve heard from the others,” he snorted, but Catelyn Stark turned around and faced him. She was eyeing him again, but now the expression on her face was too blank for Sandor to understand what type of emotions she was feeling while talking to him.

“People like to talk,” she said musingly. “But I see that you aren’t the man everyone is telling about when asked to share their expressions about the infamous Hound.”

Somehow it was hard, but Sandor managed to outlook her.

“Is it so?” he crossed his hands on his chest.

“I can see it clearly,” she answered straight away, but suddenly changed the subject of their strange talk. “Clegane, you’ve heard about the agreement between my husband and the King, isn’t so?”

“I had,” Sandor shrugged. The betrothal between Sansa and Joffrey haven’t been announced yet, or maybe Lord Stark did it after Sandor left the great hall, but of course he knew about it. He was Joffrey’s sworn shield, after all. 

Of course, he knew about everything this betrothal will bring with it - deaths, cries, blood. Unfortunately, he couldn’t tell Catelyn Stark about the things he knew.

“Good,” Catelyn Stark nodded, and suddenly something changed in her posture. She became tense, as she finally got enough common sense to feel something like fear in his presence. “You’re the sword shield of a prince, and one day you will serve this boy as the King. He will sit on the Iron Throne after his father, and my daughter will be by his side.”

“Maybe,” Sandor replied carefully. He wanted to bark with laughter and say that Sansa will never become Joffrey’s wife, but it would be the most inconsiderate act he was capable for.

Lady Catelyn eyed him with a peery stare.

“My husband ensured me Sansa will be wedded to the prince after she will flower,” she said. “Which means that one day she will become the Queen.”

“Maybe,” Sandor nodded, trying not to look too suspicious with his short answers.

“I have a request for you, Clegane,” Catelyn Stark suddenly said. “As for a sworn shield of the crown prince.”

Sandor cocked an eyebrow in surprise. Well, that was not what he was expecting.

“I’m the Lannister’s dog,” he snorted. “Can’t take the commands from the others.”

“And it’s not the command,” Lady Stark answered with a little irritation in her voice. “It’s a _request_.”

“Go on,” Sandor bowed his head.

“I wanted to ask you to look after my daughter, Clegane,” she said looking directly into his eyes.

“Look after?” Sandor repeated dumbly.

  
“I don’t ask you to switch your allegiances or anything like this,” Catelyn Stark’s voice was getting quieter with each word. “But I am a mother, and I am worried for her future. I know you will have to spend hours with the crown prince, and Sansa will often be by his side - just look after her, Clegane. _Please_.”

Sandor felt his heartbeat to speed up. It was not what he could ever expect from someone like Lady Catelyn Stark, and he hoped she didn’t notice the change in his behaviour. He was surprised. He was suspicious. He was _afraid_.

He knew that eventually he will start to look after Sansa, sparing her from the worst things which could happen to her at Joffrey’s court. And he knew that she will be glad for his actions, it didn’t even matter for her that what he did was kind of futile. But it had to happen only after she had lost her father, as the little lady Sansa whose head was full of songs and dreams was too scared to allow someone like him to _look after_ her. And now her mother was asking him to take care of her, and Sandor was afraid he could mess something up.

“I don’t think I am the right person to look after someone like your daughter,” he rasped.

“I think you _are_ the right one,” Catelyn Stark confronted him with a confidence in her voice. “You’re the strong warrior, Clegane, but at the same time, you have a head on your shoulders. The King wouldn’t allow a ruthless killer to guard his son, after all. And, you worship the Seven.”

“I don’t,” Sandor tried to protest, but shut up under the firm stare of Lady Stark.

“You can repulse my words, but I know that there’s a place for the faith somewhere in your heart. Besides,” she suddenly stopped and a shade of compassion appeared in her eyes. “You’re the man who is capable of sincere emotions.”

“Why do you think so?” Sandor frowned.  
  


“I’m sorry, Clegane,” Lady Stark sighed. “I know it wasn’t the right thing to do, but I’ve overheard you a little bit. When you were talking to the gods about a _woman_ they took from you. I’m sorry for anything that had happened to her.”

_Oh fuck_.

He mumbled something thick under his nose, cursing the gods along for making him so weak and so obvious.

“You have to be a good man, Clegane,” Lady Stark said again and this time there was an assurance in her voice. “Again, I don’t ask you to become a sworn shield for my daughter, nor I want you to break the vows you’ve given before.”

“There was only one vow I’ve ever given in my life,” Sandor snorted. “And it was nothing to do with my service to the Lannisters.”

He decided to spare Lady Stark from the additional details, which included her daughter and one particular marriage ceremony.

“Anyway, I’m not taking you into my service or ask you to betray the prince and his family,” Catelyn Stark went on. “Just… Just look after Sansa, please.”

Sandor felt himself to nod. He had to stay still, his mind and body were so stupid sometimes, but he had no control over them.

“Thank you,” Catelyn Stark whispered, finally breaking their eye contact. It was strange to hear the words of gratitude from a noblewoman like her, usually, the actions of the Hound were met by snorts or silence. 

Sandor shrugged. He didn’t want to answer anything, as if in fear he could spill something which wasn’t meant for Lady Stark’s ears.

  
For example, the words that the woman she had mentioned before was, in fact, _her daughter_.

Catelyn Stark throw the last glance at him and left after bidding her farewells, leaving Sandor all alone again, just as he wanted. But the walls of tiny sept didn’t look as welcoming as they did before, and Sandor flinched. The wooden figures were watching him, but now he felt as if they were eyeing him with an unhidden suspicion. As if they already knew he will fail the request from Lady Stark.

Sandor cursed under his breath and left the sept. The yard was still empty and the sounds of the joyful music were heard on the distance. The feast wasn’t over, which meant that the guest house had to be empty. Sandor sighed and went there, wishing to get into his bed as soon as possible.

Maybe, just maybe there still was a chance that this day was just a thing his mind and the gods had made up before throwing him into the eternal darkness. That it wasn’t real and Sandor Clegane was dead. And not thrown back in time.

But when Sandor had barred the door and laid down on the too small for his height bed, the sleep wasn’t coming at all. He was staring into the darkness and the colourful images from the last day were dancing in front of him. Teasing him, frightening him, mocking him. The last thing he remembered before the darkness had descended him was the fear in Sansa’s eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> huh
> 
> i'm so sorry, Sandor, for putting you into such a mess...


End file.
